Transition
by Elementary Said He
Summary: Mary passes away, leaving Watson with their four-year-old daughter. Desperate, he returns to Baker Street. Eventual slash  Holmes/Watson .
1. Chapter 1

London was just as he remembered it. That wasn't terribly surprising, he'd only been gone for five years, but it was still a great comfort to the doctor, who had been unsure of what to expect. There was a chill in the air, the sky gray and overcast with thick clouds that threatened to produce rain at any minute. The streets reeked in the way that only such a great city could, a detestable odor to those who were unaccustomed to it, but the most welcoming scent to those who had lived and breathed it their entire lives.

Watson enjoyed the country, he truly did. The fresh air warmed his insides, and the scenery never disappointed, but he supposed, after having so much excitement in his life, it would only be a matter of time before he grew bored of the tranquility. Not that he had ever mentioned that to his wife.

His wife… his sweet Mary. Every reminder of the woman brought a weight down on his heart. No. No, that was not true. Not every reminder. One reminder in particular squeezed his hand, tugging on his fingers to gain his attention.

"Look daddy, look!"

Watson turned his head to see what had captured her attention. She pointed out the window of the hansom to the giant clock tower, standing above many of London's buildings, its great clocks glowing in the dreary sky.

"It's so pretty!"

The doctor smiled faintly, reaching out and gently tugging the girl away from the window she was standing at, pulling her into his lap. "You should not be standing while we are moving, darling."

Her lower lip stuck out in a pout, but it did not last long, as soon she was peering out the window on Watson's side, taking in all new sights.

Jean. His little Jean. She looked so much like her mother, though Mary had always claimed that she looked like him too. At four years old, the girl's face was still round, but even then, it showed promise of her mother's high cheekbones. She had Mary's fair skin, and deep curls of hair, but Watson supposed that the color did lean closer to his own sandy-brown than her chestnut. And Jean's eyes, Mary always told him, were identical to his own.

Watson felt an awful stinging in his eyes, threatening to break the calm resolve he'd managed to hold for his daughter. Oh, his Mary. It had not been three weeks since her illness had finally taken her. She had been sick for some months, and he'd done his very best to care for her, but nothing he did helped. Jean mostly stayed with a pair of very kind neighbors during the worst of Mary's illness, and they had offered to help with her after his wife had passed, but he did not feel right, having people he barely knew raising his child. He could not do it himself. In the four years of Jean's life, Mary had always been the one to care for her most basic needs… but what was he to do, then?

He found his answer about a week ago, when Jean had crept from her bed to his room.

"_Daddy?"_

_Watson opened his eyes blearily, startled to see the little face looking at him, and the deep emotions that ran through her big blue eyes. He was ashamed that she should find him in such a state, clinging to her mother's pillow as he was._

_He pushed it away quickly, sitting up in bed. "J-Jean. What are you doing out of bed?"_

_The girl shifted her weight from foot to foot, debating with herself before finally, she answered, her voice cracking, "Mummy isn't coming home, is she? Sh-she left her things, but she isn't coming back."_

_His heart broke. He drew his little girl into his arms, pulling her close to his chest. She grasped at his night-shirt, sobbing into his clothing as she curled into him, tiny and delicate in his arms. He held her for the rest of the night, gently rocking her as she slept fitfully in his arms, murmuring words of comfort, telling her that everything would be alright._

_Watson knew they couldn't stay there, for Jean's sake as much as his own. Mary was everywhere in that house. If both of them were to be able to let go, they would have to leave._

Jean had been excited at the prospect, which he hadn't expected. He had thought that maybe the girl would cling to their familiar home, but she had always been too adventurous for the quiet country, and the idea of going somewhere new had made her positively giddy. Watson had still been forced to remove a large portion of Mary's belongings from the girl's bags - something she'd been very upset about - but he had not completely deprived her. Packed safely away was a portrait of his late wife, as well as one of their family, one of Mary's favorite dresses, and her beloved collection of books. He and Mary used to take turns every night reading to her.

For some time Watson had wondered where they would go, but when he'd first decided to leave, he'd known the answer to that. There was only one other place in the world for John Watson.

"Baker Street," the cab driver announced.

Watson's insides turned cold. Baker street. Looking out the window, he took everything in, the familiar building in which he'd spent so many years of his life. Jean, still on his lap, was studying it as well, eyes large and inquisitive. The doctor was anxious now. How could he not have thought this through? In the five years he'd lived out in the country, he had never gone to London to visit his closest and dearest friend. It was not that he did not want to, he had simply been far too busy with his practice, and his family. At first, he'd sent letters, telling his old flat mate of how happy he was, but at the time, the other had still been very angry with him for leaving. His writing had dwindled after a few months, knowing he would gain no response.

What now, then? Would his friend be angry with him? Cold? Would he send him away? Watson had no idea what he would do if that were the case. Even more, if he was accepted back into his Baker Street home, then what? That old bachelor pad was hardly the place to raise a child! A child… his dearest friend did not even know of Jean's existence!

"Daddy?"

Snapping out of his thoughts as he heard the concern in his daughter's voice, Watson blinked owlishly. Her brows were furrowed slightly, creating a little crease between them. "S-sorry, Jean." He cupped her face, placing a kiss on her forehead gently. "I want you to stay here for a few minutes, do you understand?"

The little girl did not seem pleased, but she seemed to sense her father's apprehension on the matter, so she nodded slowly. Climbing from his lap, she watched Watson slide out of the hansom, gripping his walking stick tightly as he made his way to the curious door of 221B.

Watson raised a fist, pounding on the door and holding his breath.

"_Mrs. Hudson!_"

Despite the anxiety boiling inside of him, the sound of that voice brought him a sudden rush of delight. Sherlock Holmes. The most brilliant man in all of London. And for the first time in three weeks, he wanted to laugh, knowing that his old flat mate had not changed. He could imagine Holmes now, scrambling to clean up the sitting room, in case it was a client at the door.

Mrs. Hudson did not appear to be there, however, so Watson waited patiently. Finally, after several minute and a few more shouts of the landlady's name, he heard the sleuth rush down the stairs. He pictured Holmes straightening his back, taking a deep breath to make himself appear more dignified again before finally the door was pulled open.

Watson almost grinned. The great detective stood before him, his eyes going wide for a fraction of a second before settling again into the calculating gaze he had always come to associate with Sherlock Holmes. He had wanted to take in the sight of his friend, to assess if he'd been taking proper care of himself, but it would have taken him several minutes to do so. It took Holmes a grand total of five seconds.

"My deepest condolences."

The military man blinked slowly, not quite registering. "Excuse me?"

"Your wife," Holmes stated patiently.

Watson should have known, and yet still his friend's abilities astounded him, even after so many years. "How-?" How, in those few seconds, could Holmes have figured it out?

"It is hardly an intricate mystery, old boy. You've brought far too many bags for a short stay, indicating that you are moving from your country home. And the…" Holmes paused, his gaze flickering past Watson, "child watching us from your cab - I believe I am a little late in offering my congratulations, she has your eyes - indicates that you have not merely had a falling out with your wife. Miss Morstan would never allow herself to be separated from her child, no proper mother would."

The doctor could only stare for a few minutes, trying to grasp everything that had just happened. During his travels, he had tried to imagine what he might say to his friend, he'd gone over various speeches, mulling them about and picking them apart. Again, he should have known. Attempting to pull himself together, to stop looking like a damned fool, Watson straightened his back. "Holmes, look…"

"You can not stay here." Holmes turned his back, then, and moved to close the door.

Quickly, Watson stuck out his cane, effectively stopping the door from closing. "Holmes!" He used a sharper voice, one that he had not used in a long time. None the less, it seemed to capture the detective's attention.

Facing him once more, Holmes raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to state his case.

"I know you have no obligation to me anymore, I am sorry that I have not come to see you, or even written a letter to you in so long," his friend was hurt by that, Watson knew he was, even if he would never admit to it, "but I'm begging you, as a friend. I don't know what else to do."

Holmes scoffed. "I hardly believe that, Watson. I'm sure your in-laws would be delighted-"

"They've not liked me since I missed lunch with them to get arrested with _you_, Holmes."

That brought the detective to a pause. "I'm sure they would put aside-"

"They would waste no time in stripping her away from me, Holmes," as he said this, Watson's voice cracked. His face burned with shame at his weakness, but he would not turn away now. He would not lose his daughter. Not his little girl.

Holmes hesitated. He could see the desperation burning in those pools of blue, and he was wavering. "I've no room for a child, Watson, you know this."

"She will share my room until we figure something out."

"My clients will not appreciate a child running around."

"I will keep her in my room when you are speaking to a client."

"I have some very delicate experiments-"

"She will not disrupt you, or your work."

"… Why here?"

Watson smiled warily. "I've no where else to go."

Holmes fell silent for a long moment. He looked up at the cab again. He could see that little girl once more, eyes identical to his old friend's staring directly at him with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. When he caught her gaze, she realized she'd been caught and ducked down out of his sight. Even the little glimpse of her, he could see Watson's late wife in her. His eyes were drawn back to the doctor. "Watson…"

"_Please_, Holmes…"

The detective folded. His expression set into something cool and calm, but Watson could see there was annoyance lingering there as he stepped away from the door, leaving it open for the doctor. Watson did not wait, knowing that if he did not hurry, Holmes might change his mind.

Smiling in relief, Watson stepped away from the door, stepping back toward the cab as quickly as he could. With some instructions to the cab driver to carry their things inside, he opened the door, finding his daughter ducking behind it. Jean looked at him uncertainly, waiting for an answer to a question she didn't really have to ask.

"We're going to stay here for a while, sweetheart," he told her gently, reaching into the cab to scoop her up. He did it with some trouble, the combination of a bad shoulder, bad leg, and the need to hold a cane making it difficult, but he'd learned how to balance her growing weight years ago. Her adventurous spirit had vanished, replaced with something very shy, no doubt because she'd seen him arguing with Holmes.

"Here?" Jean repeated, fingers curling into his waistcoat and pressing herself close to his chest.

"Yes Jean, here." He held her protectively, carrying her through the door and thanking the cabbie as he set the last of their things inside. He paid the man and bid him a good day.

"Who was that man?"

Kissing her forehead, Watson started carefully up the stairs. "He is a good friend of mine. His name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes," Jean tested the name on her lips, her brows furrowing. She was certain she'd heard the name before.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Watson took a deep breath. Behind the door of the sitting room, he heard a sharp screech, a sound that he'd become all too familiar with years ago. Jean cringed, and he held her closer to assure her that it was alright. Entering the sitting room, he spotted Holmes quickly.

The detective was in his favorite chair, slouched sideways in it as he pulled the bow unmethodically over the strings of his violin, creating another screeching sound. Watson was finally able to take him in. He looked a little thinner than he last remembered, and a little scruffier and paler, but well enough. His clothes were wrinkled and disheveled, but mostly hidden by that tattered old dressing gown he often wore around the flat.

And the flat, oh the flat. Watson was almost come over with emotion seeing it. Just as he remembered. A massive mess, as always, everything, even his old chair, in the exact positioning he'd last seen, aside from, perhaps, a few extra trinkets Holmes had picked up over the years.

"Holmes."

Another wail from his violin.

"Holmes!" both Jean and the detective jumped. Holmes turned to look at him, cocking his head to the side.

"There's no need to shout, old boy, I'm right here."

Jean looked as if she might have smiled, but her shyness quickly took over again and she instead buried her face in her father's neck. What a strange man this was. In all of the people she'd come to know, people that had been over for dinner, and even patients that came to his study, none of them had been like this man. The house smelled strongly of tobacco - even stronger than her father's study - and some other unknown, but poignant stenches. And what a big mess it was, so different from Watson and Mary's tidy habits!

Watson forced a smile. "Holmes," he said, sounding as if his patience was already being tried, "this is my daughter, Jean. Jeanie, this is Mr. Holmes."

Holmes, realizing what this was about, blinked slowly. He looked at the little person in Watson's arms, unsure of what to do. She seemed just as uncertain, burying herself further in his friend's clothing. Watson sent him a pointed look, and he knew that if he did not do something, attempt to make her a little more comfortable, he would likely face the good doctor's wrath. "Yes. I see... Hello Ms. Watson."

No response.

"Jean? Darling?"

Finally lifting her head, she sneaked a glance at Holmes, but while using Watson's coat lapel to hide behind. It was his eyes that unsettled her so much. She had never seen such a gaze, so far away, but focused all at the same time. She turned away again, shaking her head 'no'. Watson looked at his friend apologetically, who gave a shrug and turned back to his Stradivarius. The doctor frowned, not knowing if it bothered him more that Jean was so afraid of Holmes - she was typically very outgoing - or that Holmes didn't seem to care. Not that he had expected his friend to warm up to her immediately, he had simply hoped…

Sighing, Watson, ran a hand over Jean's back. "Is there a bed in my old room, Holmes?"

A grunt of confirmation. The doctor nodded a thanks, figuring that would have to be enough for now. He was surprised, when he stepped inside, to see that it was not as over-run with Holmes' things as he'd imagined it would be. In fact, it was almost exactly as it was the day Watson had left, save for a books, what appeared to be a large bag - good God, he hoped that wasn't a body - and some amount of dishes and old papers. Even his old furniture remained.

There he went, getting emotional again. Clearing his throat, he carried Jean to the bed, pushing some old papers off so that he could set her down in it. There was a slight struggle as she clung to his clothing, but he managed to remove her. "I'm right here, Jean," he assured her as she instead grabbed onto his hand. "Do you want me to stay here?"

Jean kept a tight hold, curling up around his arm. "Yes please."

"Okay." He would get their things in the morning, and he would have to talk to Holmes too. He could feel a great distance between them, and it was unsettling, after being so close to Holmes before. For now, he toed off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, pulling his daughter close to him. She immediately made herself comfortable there.

"It smells like smoke,"

Watson smiled wryly as he realized she was right. The bed practically reeked of tobacco. He could not imagine how it had managed to remain so long without an avid smoker sleeping there, but it hardly mattered. "I know. I'm sorry."

The little girl shrugged, curling up tighter. It was all terribly unfamiliar, but it had been a long, boring drive from the country, and she was very tired. It didn't take her long to fall asleep, despite the almost disturbing sounds coming from Holmes' tortured violin. He would have to talk to the detective about that. He had become accustomed to it over many years, but Jean was only four, she needed her sleep.

Watson remained silent, listening to the violin, and to his daughter's soft breathing. If it were not for the little girl in his arms, he would almost think that Mary had never existed, as familiar as this all seemed. Part of him was amazed that he'd been allowed back into Baker Street, another part of him horrified that he'd even considered this.

He couldn't care for a Jean himself. Holmes certainly couldn't care for her. Perhaps he could beg Mrs. Hudson for help, but could he really remain here? And if not, where would he go?

Sighing heavily once again, Watson nuzzled into his daughter's curly hair. He tried to push away his worried thoughts, and to focus on something better. Mary was gone, but Jean, his little Jean, was still alive and well. And Holmes… how very much he'd missed his friend. He'd tried not to think of it, to be a good husband and father, but he would occasionally, on a quiet night (and oh how many there were), he would wonder what the great detective was up to. Particularly on the rare instances he saw Holmes' name in the paper. And they were very rare, now that he was not there with his friend, documenting cases.

He would figure it out…

Watson closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

When Jean opened her eyes, she became aware of the strong arm wrapped around her. She recognized the hold in an instant, the steady strength that belonged only to her father. Strong, but always gentle. Many nights, when nightmares plagued her sleep, he would take her into his arms, hold her close as her mother stroked her hair, speaking to her until she fell asleep again.

Her eyes watered up and she swallowed the lump in her throat. She considered remaining there, but the familiarity of it hurt too much without her mother's presence. Slowly, she pulled away, careful not to disturb the doctor as she slid out of the old bed.

Jean smoothed her dress the best that she could, frowning as she realized that both she and her father had fallen asleep in their day clothes. Typically it was not something the military training that had been bred into Watson's mind would allow, but these were rather special circumstances. Still, Jean found it strange.

She looked around the unfamiliar room, curiosity bubbling up in her as it did every child in a new environment. Creeping about on her tip-toes, she picked through the contents of the room, scrunching up her face as she found nothing of terrible interest. She could not read the thick texts on her own, and she had no interest for the old papers. She considered trying to look in the massive bag set across the desk, but it was set too high, and she knew she would only end up knocking something down and creating a horrible racket.

Instead, Jean moved as stealthily as she could - mind, she was a child, and that was not very stealthily at all - quitting the room. The sitting room was much more exciting, filled with contraptions and trinkets completely foreign to her. How very strange a man Mr. Holmes was, and so different from her father. First, Jean moved to the curious tiger-skin rug at the center of the room, going on to her hands and knees so that she could stroke the fur. It was softer than she would've imagined from such a powerful beast, like velvet under her fingertips. Next, she moved on to what looked to be an assortment of… well, she wasn't sure.

Jean picked up what looked to be a rubber nose and blinked, placing it over her face and looking in the mirror. It was much too big for her, and she giggled had to try very hard to stifle her giggles. She tried on several pieces of various guises - sideburns and wigs, and other strange things - until she was completely mismatched.

"Are you quite finished?"

Jean jumped and whirled around, her eyes going wide as saucers as her gaze fell on Holmes. She hadn't even heard him, yet he was standing right behind her. She ducked her head guiltily, quickly pulling off an old gray wig, as if it would really keep him from knowing. "I-I'm sorry Mr. Holmes," she stumbled over herself, glancing desperately toward the bedroom her father was in, hoping that he would come and save her. Unfortunately, she had no such luck.

Holmes raised an eyebrow, that being the only change in his expression. It did nothing to ease the poor girl. He reached out, picking the disguise off of her as she looked away and fidgeted guiltily.

"Sorry," she repeated. "I was just-"

"Snooping through someone else's belongings."

She cringed, looking as if she'd like to go run and hide somewhere. There was no sympathy in his eyes like there often was with other adults when they dealt with children. No soft voice, or heavy sigh, followed by a gentle scolding. She would much rather be sent to her room than have to sit there under his unwavering gaze. Jean could feel tears swelling up in her eyes and her jaw trembled as she tried to fight them off.

Holmes, setting everything back where it belonged, turned back to the girl. Her gaze shifted left and right, looking anywhere but at him. He felt a flicker of resentment toward her, pursing his lips into a thin line. It was ridiculous, of course. She was only a little girl. She could hardly be looked at as the guilty party, even if she was the cause of the effect. Finally, Jean's blue eyes landed on him again, meeting his gaze and it nearly caused both of them to cringe and look away again.

Holmes was very familiar with her eyes, though she didn't know it. They were a mirror image of her father's, right down to the little fleck of darker color just beneath the pupil. However, Holmes had never seen said eyes glistening with tears, so open and innocent. When he first met Watson, right after he'd been discharged from Afghanistan, he'd been anything but.

Jean's fingers curled into fists, tugging at her dress until finally, she could take it no more. She'd been just about to run off when something else seemed to capture Holmes' attention, and he looked toward the door. She was thoroughly confused, until it opened and an older woman stepped inside, carrying with her a basket of Holmes' laundry, which she set aside, knowing she would only be shooed from his room. She tossed the sleuth the morning paper.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes greeted, sinking down into his favorite chair like a lazy cat, leaving Jean standing in the middle of the room. "I do hope you'll be starting breakfast soon."

"If you'll actually be eating it, and not using it for your experiments," the woman responded dryly before she realized that there was another presence in the room. She blinked slowly and quickly put on a comforting smile. The poor girl looked scared witless. "Hello, who is this, Mr. Holmes? Not a client, I hope?"

"No," Holmes responded before Jean could think to. "She and her father will be staying with us for a while."

Mrs. Hudson looked surprised before the expression settled into incredulity. "Is that what all that in my hallway is? Now, what man in his right mind would bring his child to live with you?" Holmes raised an eyebrow, almost looking amused, but he gave no response. With a long- suffering sigh, Mrs. Hudson lowered herself to Jean's level, putting on another winning smile for her sake. "Now, what's your name, sweetheart?"

The little girl shifted uncomfortably for a minute, but seemed to deem the landlady as less of a threat than Holmes was. "Jean, ma'am."

"And your full name?"

"Jean Lena Watson."

Holmes, who had lit his first pipe of the morning, watched the emotions flit across his landlady's face with great amusement. Surprise, uncertainty, understanding, exasperation, delight, and then finally, confusion. "Well…" Mrs. Hudson straightened herself, sending Holmes a look that said she would be getting an explanation by the end of the day, "I'll just start breakfast, then. For three?"

"Unpoisoned please, Nanny."

Jean's eyes widened slightly as Mrs. Hudson sent him a dark look and turned to leave. She almost wanted to follow the landlady, just so that she would not have to remain alone in the room with the detective. However, glancing over at him, she saw that his attention was no longer focused on her, his eyes instead skimming over the morning's headlines. Hesitantly, she stepped over the things littering the floor, climbing onto the settee and curling up into a ball.

For a while, it was quiet. It didn't stay that way for long, as children - as well as consulting detectives, when they did not have things like the paper to occupy them with - are prone to quick boredom. Despite her uncertainty of the man, she could not simply sit there quietly. "Mr. Holmes?" she spoke up. Holmes didn't even look up from the paper. Jean frowned, not sure if she had been heard. "Mr. Holmes?"

Restraining a sigh, he lowered the paper enough to look at the girl over it. She cringed under his dark eyes, falling silent. Exasperated, he looked back at the text. Again, the silence didn't last long.

"M-Mr. Holmes?"

Forcing himself to remain calm, he responded, this time keeping his gaze on the morning ink. "Yes, Ms. Watson?"

"How do you know my daddy?"

That brought the great detective to a pause. He lowered the paper again to look at Jean and she quickly ducked under the arm of the settee, her familiar eyes peering at him just over it. Holmes seriously doubted Watson wanted him to tell the girl how they ran around the streets of London, stopping crooks and murderers, and often causing major damage all at the same time.

"Is that not a better question for him?" Once again, his focus turned elsewhere, breathing in a long drag from his pipe.

Silence. A little rustle from the settee. More silence. Holmes could feel her gaze on him, no longer uncertain, but extremely curious. He folded the paper down, looking at her pointedly. "_Yes_, Ms. Watson?"

She cringed, ducking behind the arm of the settee. If Holmes were a lesser man, he might have thrown his arms up in frustration. As it was, the only part of him that betrayed his annoyance was the slightest twitch of his left eyebrow. With a deep breath to calm himself he sunk back into his reading. Mercifully, that was when Watson chose to enter.

"Good morning," the doctor greeted cautiously, his gaze flickering between them. Holmes looked calm enough - didn't he always? - but Jean was currently hiding herself in the crook of the settee, and that couldn't be a good sign.

"Is it? I hadn't noticed."

The doctor frowned and sighed, approaching the back of the settee and leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Jean's head. "Always a pleasure to see you in such high spirits, old boy."

Jean reached up, curling her fingers into her father's sleeve and holding him there a moment. "What does that mean?"

Watson's frown vanished in an instant, replaced by the pride that always came to any parent who saw their child growing one way or another. Holmes glanced over his paper, raising an eyebrow. Never had he seen his friend's mood change so quickly. "It means that I'm glad to see him happy."

Jean appeared confused. "He's happy?" She looked to Holmes, who once more had to force himself not to be extremely annoyed. He reminded himself that she was only a child.

The other man, meanwhile, laughed at the confusion. "No." He swept the child up into his arms. "That was sarcasm."

"What is sarcasm?"

Holmes sat by quietly as Watson explained. Each explanation seemed to lead to another question, one that the physician was happy to answer, no matter how long it continued. Watson seemed to forget that he was in the room entirely, something Holmes had not at all expected. In the past, Watson's attention had always been at least partly on him, even when in Mary's presence. But Jean, this small child, completely captivated the doctor. He smiled, despite the gloom Holmes had seen on him the night before, and his eyes glowed with an affection he'd never before seen.

His insides curled up with something cold and bitter.

"Breakfast," Mrs. Hudson announced, nudging the door open with her shoulder, carrying two trays with her.

Jean began to wriggle away from her father's arms immediately. While Watson did the best he could, it had been some time since she'd had a properly cooked meal.

Chuckling, Watson rubbed the back of his neck. "Hello Mrs. Hudson," he greeted, sending her a somewhat guilty smile. He truly felt bad for having not visited once, and he knew his landlady would be more likely to call him out on it than Holmes.

However, instead of the reproachful look he'd been expecting, he instead received a smile. "Hello Doctor. It's good to see you."

"And you." Pleased, he took a seat at the small table, next to Jean. "How have you been?"

"Well enough, I suppose." She set the food before them. "Your daughter is lovely."

His eyes positively burned with pride. "Thank you." Glancing to the side as he realized that there were only two of them at the table, he frowned. "Are you joining us for dinner, Holmes?"

The sleuth dropped the paper he'd been pretending to read and swept up from his sitting chair. "I've lost my appetite, actually."

"Mr. Holmes-" Mrs. Hudson started, but before she could think to scold him, he was out of the room, the door closing firmly behind him.

There was a silence in the room. And then, tentatively, "Is Mr. Holmes mad at me?"

Watson's lips pursed. "No, no, Jeanie." What had suddenly come over Holmes, he didn't know. He had seemed somewhat disagreeable when Watson woke up, but hardly enough to lock himself in his room. "It wasn't you."

"I think it was…"

The doctor's heart ached. He didn't want his daughter to believe that she might be the cause of whatever mood Holmes found himself in, but how could he explain to a child what exactly happened to his dear friend? Mrs. Hudson took pity on him.

"It wasn't your fault, dear," the landlady assured, resting a hand on Jean's shoulder. "Sometimes Mr. Holmes just gets… sad."

"Why?"

Watson and Mrs. Hudson exchanged an anxious glance. The doctor knew he'd have to face this eventually, he just hadn't expected it to happen so soon. "I wish we knew, darling."

After that, it fell silent again. They ate quietly. Watson tried not to look at Holmes' empty armchair, and tried not to be angry at his friend, and tried not to be heartbroken every time Jean looked toward Holmes' door in a mix of sorrow and curiosity.

After breakfast, Watson and Jean carried their belongings to their new - and old - room. They unpacked their things, and made it a little more comfortable. Being a child, Jean could not remain quiet long. She chattered a little, asked questions, and told stories that Watson gladly listened to. However, he couldn't help straining his ears, hoping he'd hear Holmes leave his room. He had no such luck. Every hour that rolled by in which he didn't hear the detective, he grew more and more angry with him.

If that man had turned to the syringe, especially with Jean in the house, Watson would have a few very ungentlemanly words for him.

After dinner - Mrs. Hudson made a wonderful meal that they were both very grateful for - Watson helped Jean into her newly unpacked night-clothes. She curled up in bed, watching her father as he stroked her hair soothingly.

"Will you tell me a story?"

He smiled affectionately. "Of course, my heart. Would you like me to get one of your books?"

Jean shook her head. "I want to hear one of the ones about 'The Doctor and The Detective'."

He was surprised, though he knew he shouldn't have been; they were her favorite. Old adventures, not so long forgotten, though he never used his or Holmes' names while telling them. Of course, he obscured many details, making sure that they were not too harsh for Jean's young age. Holmes would've killed him if he knew that he'd turned their cases into children's adventure stories. However, Mary had never discouraged them. She'd felt it would be good for her to hear, as she would no doubt find out about his past life eventually.

"Alright. Which one would you like to hear?"

Jean grinned and Watson already knew the answer. "The one with the blue jewel."

"Ah, the Blue Carbuncle," the doctor chuckled, tucking a lock of hair behind Jean's ear as he considered. She positively adored that one, despite how many times he retold it. "Very well. I will tell it again. Are you comfortable?" Jean nodded eagerly. "Alright."

"It was the second morning after Christmas. The doctor and the detective…"

Holmes scoffed softly as he heard the doctor's voice. He crept silently through the sitting room, pulling a coat on over his shoulders. He could not imagine a single fact finding its way into whatever tales Watson told his daughter. It might as well all be lies. He didn't bother with a hat, knowing he would only lose it at the boxing ring.

The last thing he heard before he stepped out to the darkening streets was Jean finishing a sentence for Watson. He wondered how often fables were told.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you so much for the reviews guys. ^^ It's always encouraging to know that you're enjoying the fic.~

* * *

Mr. Holmes was not at 221B Baker Street. Despite being told to leave the sleuth alone, Jean's curiosity had been far too great that morning to simply sit around and wait. So, while her father was in the washroom, performing his morning routine, she crept silently to Holmes' door, cracked it open, and peered inside.

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked tentatively, already knowing that he likely wouldn't be happy to see her. None the less, she'd been born with her father's tendency to care, even for the most acerbic of life forms. "Are you still sad?" She was met with silence. Furrowing her brows, she pushed the door open further and edged in just a little more. Holmes was no where in sight. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Jean!"

The girl nearly jumped at the sound of her father's voice, whirling around to face him. He was clearly not happy that she'd disobeyed him, but she scrambled for some way out of his anger.

"Mr. Holmes isn't here, I wasn't bothering him."

Watson paused. He placed a hand on Jean's shoulder and peered inside as well, only to realize that Jean was right. She bit her lip as she saw a new anger light his eyes., but it was not pointed at her.

"Yes. It looks like Mr. Holmes went out last night." Watson tugged Jean back and closed the door firmly.

The next couple of hours were quiet. Jean poked around the flat a little more, careful not to disturb anything. At one point, Mrs. Hudson brought an old bulldog up with her. Jean was delighted, stroking it, and rubbing it's belly, and even Watson cracked a little smile, greeting the creature, but the mood didn't last long. Soon, he was glaring at Holmes' door again, waiting, though for what, she didn't know.

She found out when she heard the front door open.

Watson smiled at her soothingly, but even she could see the emotions hiding there. "Jean, why don't you go to our room and play for a little while?"

He left no room for questioning. She hesitated and nodded as she heard Holmes' footsteps on the stairs. She fled to the room. Satisfied that the door was firmly closed behind her, Watson steeled himself, taking a seat in his favorite armchair.

When Holmes stepped inside, Watson immediately knew where he'd been. His clothes were dusty and wrinkled and sweat matted his dark hair. He could see a bruise blooming at the corner of his jaw, and a cut across his left brow. He could only imagine what other injuries Holmes had taken. He was an excellent fighter, there was no doubt, but even he could grow weary, and he had been out all night. Those injuries had likely been gained in his last few rounds.

"Ah, good morning, Watson," the detective greeted, voice lined with joviality.

Concern had been battling with anger in his mind, but Holmes' detached attitude quickly settled Watson's mind. "What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" he hissed lowly, narrowing his eyes.

"Excuse me?" He was feigning innocence. If Watson wasn't so accustomed to his talents as an actor, he may have actually believed that Holmes had no idea what he'd done wrong. While the innocence may have been an act, though, he was genuinely surprised to hear the doctor actually curse.

"There's a _child_ here, Holmes! You can't just run off in the middle of the night to go get yourself beaten to a bloody pulp!"

Dropping his act, Holmes raised a single eyebrow. He curled his fingers into his shirt, lifting it off over his head and dropping it in a rumpled heap on the ground. "I would hardly call myself beaten," he responded lightly. He grabbed a nearby handkerchief, using it to wipe old sweat from the back of his neck.

Watson pursed his lips, trying to crush the concern he felt right now and remain angry. "I beg to differ," Just as he'd predicted, Holmes had a number of injuries hidden beneath his clothing. Dark bruises and a few fresh cuts. Nothing looked particularly threatening, thank God, but that didn't stop his doctor's instincts from wanting to check on him.

"You should know that I've had worse," the detective shrugged, picking his old dressing gown off the back of the chair set before his chemistry set. He slid it on and tied it at the waist, effectively hiding the wounds once more. He sunk down into his favorite armchair.

"Jean doesn't know that!" Watson rubbed his eyes tiredly, How could one man be so infuriating?

Holmes found his pipe, stuffing it with his favorite brand of tobacco and lighting it. He sunk further into his chair, closing his eyes as he took slow drags from the stem, a layer of bluish smoke beginning to gather around him. "I do not see how my injuries would be of any consequence to your child."

"Because she _cares_ Holmes!"

The sleuth's eyes snapped open, calculating gaze fixing on Watson. "She does not care. She is afraid of me." He was perfectly content to keep it that way too.

"Of course she is," Watson snorted, leaning on his cane, taking some of the weight off of his bad leg. "Any child in their right mind _would_ be. But that doesn't stop her from caring."

He scoffed. "If she-"

"She went to your room this morning," the doctor cut him off, causing him to blink. He continued as he saw Holmes' mouth open to protest, "She went to your room to ask if you were still sad. She was _concerned_."

Finally, Holmes seemed to run out of things to say. Watson saw something unrecognizable in his eyes before his gaze flickered away, studying anything nearby. Finally, after a pause, he continued, his voice detached and cold. "You should teach the child to respect boundaries, Watson. That's twice she's invaded mine."

Watson stared at him in disbelief. Did nothing get through to him? His insides twisted up painfully and he gritted his teeth. This wasn't going to work. Holmes had always been difficult to live with, but he had never been so cold before, and he would not have it directed at his daughter, his Jean. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he said, "I would not want to put you out of your way. I will begin looking for new accommodations immediately." Those dark eyes focused in on him again, but other than that, Holmes did not react to the words.

Of course he didn't. It had been five years. He was foolish to think that the great detective would remain attached after so long a time. There was a constant gap between them now, partially his own fault, for not visiting, and partially Holmes' for not answering his letters in the first place.

Furious and hurt, Watson turned away, quitting the room. He forced himself not to slam his door closed behind him, clenching his jaw to try and keep his emotions hidden from his daughter.

Jean was sitting on the bed, holding one of her mother's old books to her. She couldn't read it yet, of course, but it was a comfort anyways. "Are you mad at Mr. Holmes?"

So much for hiding it. Watson released a heavy sigh, not answering to the words. "It's time to pack up our things, Jean."

She frowned. "We just unpacked."

"I know!" Jean flinched back as he father's temper rose back. In the same instant that it appeared, though, it was gone. Watson quickly moved to the bed, taking Jean's round face in his hands and kissing the crown of her head. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I am not angry at you."

Jean peered up at him with big eyes and his heart ached, the way her lips created a soft pout that reminded him of her mother. "But you're mad at Mr. Holmes," it was no longer a question.

Watson stroked her hair and frowned. "Yes," there were more emotions in his voice than he would've liked. He fought to push them down again. "But I'm afraid we can't stay here any longer, darling." He kissed her head again and pulled away.

Jean couldn't place exactly what was wrong, but she knew her father was upset. She furrowed her brows, a little crease forming between them. She silently did as she was told, beginning to gather things to pack away once again. They were only five minutes in when Watson stopped. He scrubbed his hand over his face and shook his head.

"I'm going to go talk to Mrs. Hudson," he informed her. "She's going to watch you today while I find us somewhere else to stay, okay?"

Jean nodded. The military man, satisfied that she understood, turned to go once more. The child shuffled her feet, able to feel the tension that somehow lingered around him. She frowned deeply, and set herself. Whatever Holmes had said, it had upset her father thoroughly.

She marched to the door a few minutes after Watson had gone and pushed it open, peering out. Holmes remained in his armchair, smoke surrounding him. Jean marched up in front of him, placing her hands on her hips, exuding confidence that she did not normally have while facing him.

Holmes opened his eyes, dark eyes focusing on the child. He raised a calm eyebrow. She was furious, he could see it. Her anger was not like Watson's, he noted. It did not come and ago easily. It reminded him more of Mary Morstan. In particular, it reminded him of the time she dumped a glass of wine on him. He nearly scowled at the memory. "Yes, Miss Watson?"

Jean wavered under his gaze for a moment, feeling that same uneasiness. Quickly, she pushed that aside, steeling herself again.. "You need to-" she cut herself off and blinked. Past the smoke, she managed to spot the bruise on his jaw, and the healing cut. Her anger fell away in an instant and she frowned. "You're hurt."

There was the concern that Watson had been kind enough to point out to him. Holmes forced a growl down before it escaped. "It's of no concern."

Jean shook her head no. She waved a hand around, trying to clear up the smoke a little bit and, reluctantly, Holmes set his pipe aside. Whatever he felt for her, she should not be breathing the smoke in. "What happened?"

"Nothing. I am fine."

She scrunched up her features in a way only a child could when displeased. "You're a liar, Mr. Holmes." She moved closer - Holmes pressed himself back into the armchair - to get a better look. "My daddy is a doctor. He can-"

"He has already looked at them."

She sent him a skeptical look. "See. Liar. If Daddy looked at them, he would've cleaned that," she pointed to the cut on his brow.

Holmes tried not to be extremely annoyed, having not expected her to use evidence against him. She was only a child. "Miss Watson-" He cut himself off as she moved closer again, putting her hands on his knees so that she could lean over to look at the bruise. He pursed his lips and placed a hand on her shoulder to push her back.

Stubbornly, she pushed his hand away. "Did somebody hit you?"

Holmes sighed, trying to lean away from her, but stuck there, thanks to the armchair. The only way to get her to back off would be to actually shove her, and he did not think Watson would stop himself from slugging him if he did that. Instead, he tried glaring.

She was undeterred. "You're not bleeding."

"Bruises do not bleed."

She rolled her eyes in a very unladylike manner. "Cuts do," she stated matter-of-factly. She reached out, her little fingers just brushing over the cut. Holmes forced himself not to cringe. Not because it hurt, but because such contacts were alien to him.

"Miss Watson, kindly cease this."

"What does 'cease' mean?" Jean asked, blinking slowly.

Holmes sighed. He kept forgetting she was only a child. "Stop."

"Oh." Reluctantly, she pulled away a little bit, though not completely. She hesitated, clearly not happy with simply leaving him like that. Suddenly, she smiled. "Do you know what my mummy used to do?" Why was this child so persistent? He glared again, and she hesitated, but continued. "She used to kiss it better."

He raised an eyebrow. "I hardly think-" He was brought to an abrupt pause as Jean climbed up onto his chair enough to lean over and kiss the cut on his brow. Pulling back, she watched him warily. "Is that better?"

Holmes stared, not knowing what to make of this new development. The child was supposed to be afraid of him. He had been perfectly content when that had been true, but now… Now what? She had kissed his wounds in some naïve hope that it would make it better for him.

"Jean."

The girl turned around as she heard her father's voice. Already, she sensed the frustration from him. She withdrew from Holmes and scurried to Watson's side, fingers curling into his pant leg. Watson sent Holmes a withering glare, beginning to lead Jean downstairs. "Mrs. Hudson is waiting for you."

"Is Gladstone there?"

"Of course."

Holmes remained where he was, watching them go. His fingers curled into the armchair and he swallowed thickly. This was ridiculous. One action from a little girl, and suddenly, he felt guilt crashing down on him. How could he, the great detective, be so petty as to blame a child for something she couldn't control? She could not control it if her father did not come to London every now and again, or if he stopped writing.

The detective frowned, taking up his pipe again. He couldn't even be properly angry at Watson… The doctor had tried, tried so hard to stay in contact with him. Holmes still had the old letters, sent for three months, progressively waning each time he received no response. Drawing his legs up onto the chair, Holmes closed his eyes. He was the only one to blame, and he knew it. It was his own fault that there was so much distance between them still.

Had Watson shown up at his door alone, he would have easily forgiven him. Things would've gone back to normal in a matter of days. Seeing Jean, though, he knew that couldn't happen, and he'd felt a powerful resentment. They would never be the same. They couldn't be, not with a child. He would never have his Watson again.

He turned his head as he heard uneven steps heading back up the stairs. Unmistakably his friend. When the doctor entered, he put a little more weight on his cane than usual. "Mrs. Hudson will be caring for Jean for the day," he stated simply. "She should be out of your way."

Holmes gave an absent-minded nod. Seeing that he would gain no other response while Holmes was in… whatever mood this was, he sighed in exasperation. Watson grabbed a coat and hat from his room, and left quietly.

Uncurling himself, the detective stood. He moved to the open door of Watson and Jean's room, looking inside. It was already neater than it had been when being used to simply store his own belongings. It almost looked as it once had so many years ago, when it was just him and his flat mate. The illusion was ruined, however, by the toys left in various places. A doll, a puzzle…

Holmes frowned at the emotions warring inside of him. It was her fault it would never be the same. Hers and Mary Morstan's. Yet he knew that he couldn't hate them for it. Mary had made Watson extremely happy. He might have been a wreck right now, for her loss, if Jean did not need his strength so much.

Shaking his head at himself, Holmes turned back to the sitting room, peering around. There had to be something he could do, some experiment he could perform to occupy his mind.

Anything to get his thoughts away from John Watson.


	4. Chapter 4

London did not have many affordable flats that were decent enough to raise a child in. Watson had considered finding someone to split the rent with again, but that thought was quickly thrown out. Sharing a flat with someone you just met was one thing when you were a bachelor, but when you had a child with you, it was out of the question.

For three days, Watson searched, yet he'd found nothing. Things at Baker Street, while no better than they were before, were at least steady. He left Jean in the very capable hands of his landlady, thanking her profusely every time. She was very good with his daughter, and, fortunately, could handle many things that he himself couldn't. As for Holmes…

Watson sighed warily as he grabbed his hat and coat. Holmes had fallen into some mood. He kept to his room again. Occasionally, they would hear him torturing his violin, or performing some god-awful experiment, but he kept to himself. His appetite was fitful at best. Sometimes he ate, and sometimes he threw whatever Mrs. Hudson made out the nearest window.

The doctor grew angrier and angrier every time he saw Jean look toward Holmes' door, concern clear on her young face. She'd asked him a few times if there was something they could do to help. She'd even had Mrs. Hudson brew a 'special' pot of tea - what was so special about it, Watson didn't know - and brought it to Holmes' door. When the detective didn't answer, she left it out for him, but unfortunately, it remained untouched.

"Just leave him be," Watson told her. "He just gets like this sometimes."

Jean hadn't been very satisfied with that, but she nodded anyways. Shaking his head at the thought, Watson leaned over the settee, kissing his daughter on the head. "I'll be back in a few hours, darling."

She frowned, looking up at him. "You're going again?"

"I'm afraid so." Watson didn't want to leave her, but he had to find a new place still, and he was working on starting a new practice so that he could actually afford to pay for whatever flat they managed to find. He'd already made contact with a few old patients, who were more than excited to hear from him. "I will try not to be too long. Behave for Mrs. Hudson."

Jean frowned and nodded, curling herself up a little. "Yes Daddy."

Reluctantly, Watson pulled himself away, starting down the stairs. She listened to him go and closed her eyes. Mrs. Hudson was downstairs, she knew, going through her morning routine. She would straighten everything, do some laundry, clean herself up, and then make breakfast. It would be a couple hours, still, before she would be up there to keep the child entertained.

Jean rested her chin on her knees, hugging them close to her. Ever since being caught snooping by Holmes, she was tentative to touch anything in the sitting room. The past few days, she'd kept herself entertained in hers and her father's room, but she was growing bored of her old toys.

It was Thursday… A few weeks ago, at this time, her mother would take her on a morning walk. Jean closed her eyes and tried to remember. Every week Mary would take her on a walk. They would stop by the neighbor's houses, and sometimes they would go to the little town not far away and browse the shops. Her mother knew everyone, it seemed. She would smile and laugh with them as Jean poked around their merchandise.

What did her laugh sound like?

"You are usually in your own room at this time."

Jean's eyes snapped open and she looked up. Holmes was standing right in front of her, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She didn't know how he always did that, moving so silently. She opened her mouth, stuttering a second. She had not expected to see him. Quickly, Jean began to wipe her eyes because they had begun to water up. It was useless, though. When a child so young began to cry, they could hardly make it stop.

Holmes furrowed his brows, his entire body tense. Every morning, Jean had gone to her room, leaving the sitting room open for him to get anything he might need. This morning had not been the same case. He'd thought of simply leaving her be and returning to his room, until he'd realized that she was upset. He could not, in good conscience, leave a four-year-old girl crying on his settee. Especially not after she'd so innocently attempted to take his pain away. However, now that he was there, he realized that he hadn't the faintest idea what he was supposed to do.

"You are crying." A brilliant deduction from the great detective Sherlock Holmes. He chided himself for pointing out the very obvious.

"N-No I'm n-not." A very dry expression was sent her way. Jean's face screwed up, attempting to be angry, but she couldn't manage it, furiously wiping at her tears again. She curled up tighter, ducking her head to hide her face in her knees. Her curls fell in front of her, successfully shielding her from the detective's gaze. "G-Go away!"

Holmes shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to figure out what to do in this situation. The youngest children he had ever truly had to deal with were the Irregulars, and they had certainly never come to him with tears in their eyes. 'Kissing it better' was most definitely out of the question, and he was fairly sure that only worked for physical wounds anyways.

"You're thinking about your mother."

That brought her to a pause. Jean blinked slowly, tears still trickling down her cheeks as she raised her head to look at him. "Wh-what?"

"Your mother," Holmes repeated coolly. "You are thinking about her."

"H-how did you…?"

It was obvious. She was four years old, what other problems could she possibly have except the recent death of her mother? However, Holmes knew the child wouldn't be satisfied with such an answer. So instead, "The position you are curled up in is called the 'fetal position'. When…" he paused, reminding himself that he needed to state this in a way that wasn't entirely scientific for the child to understand, "babies are carried by their mothers. Many children instinctively return to that position when they miss their mothers."

"What does instinc-"

Holmes closed his eyes. "I means that they do not think about it, they just do it. It comes naturally."

"Oh…"

When the detective opened his eyes again, he was a little surprised by the wide-eyed look he received. It was very open, displaying emotions that she had not yet learned to control like an adult. She was distracted from her grief, but she was not 'better' yet. Holmes hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. He could not dazzle her by predicting her job, or where she had last been, but she was only four. Surely little deductions - even ones so very obvious - would be entertainment enough.

"You're left-handed, your favorite color is blue, and you like to draw and climb trees."

Her eyes went even wider, though the detective wasn't entirely sure how that was possible. "How did you know?" she asked, urging him to continue.

He had gotten her attention well enough. Holmes shifted, kneeling down in front of the settee so that he was closer to her height. "Every day, I've seen you wear something blue. A ribbon, or a dress." Jean reached up and touched a blue ribbon that her father had tied into her hair on her suggestion. She smiled and nodded, urging him to continue. Holmes reached out, taking her left hand. It was so much smaller than his own. "Right here," he showed the girl her finger, "you have a little bump where you always place your pencil. That tells me you're left-handed, and that you use pencils a lot. As you're too young to be writing letters, that means you draw."

"And the trees?" she urged, a huge smile on her face now. Her eyes were lit with awe, reminding him of the first time he'd displayed his abilities to Watson. He felt a little trickle of warmth in his chest.

"You're an adventurous child that lived in the country your entire life. Of course you like to climb trees."

That caused Jean to giggle softly. She reached up to wipe her eyes on her sleeve and Holmes reached into his pocket, drawing a handkerchief for her.

"You mustn't ruin your dress," Holmes chastised. "Mrs. Hudson would be terribly upset."

Jean nodded to show she'd heard, taking the kerchief and wiping her eyes properly. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes." Holmes nodded absent-mindedly, turning his eyes away and standing up straight again. Pushing his hands into his pockets, he turned to leave when Jean reached out, curling her little fingers around his forearm. "Mr. Holmes?"

The sleuth forced back the natural instinct to flinch away. Peering down at her, he raised an expectant eyebrow. "Yes Miss Watson?"

Jean bit her lower lip, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Finally, she seemed to decide and stepped forward, wrapping her small arms around his legs in a tight hug. "Thank you."

For a moment, Holmes was frozen, unsure of how to react. It took him too far out of his comfort zone. He turned his eyes away, so as not to have to look at her and put a hand on her shoulder, lightly forcing her away from him. Once he managed to detach her arms from around him, he made a quick retreat back to his room. He leaned back against his door, closing his eyes.

That child. His plan had been to ignore both her and Watson until they were gone, that way neither one of them could mix him up even more. Unfortunately, that hadn't worked. Holmes had known there would be no smothering whatever Watson made him feel, he'd tried and failed for many years. Jean though, Jean should have been easy. He'd known her less than a week, surely she couldn't provoke emotions in him like her father could.

Oh, how dreadfully wrong that that was. Every time they managed to end up in the same room, she stirred up something new inside of him. She poked and prodded at his emotions without even realizing it. But how? How could she do that to him so easily? Almost as easily as her father…

No. No, that was it. It was because she was Watson's. Every time he looked at her, he saw a little piece of him shining through. Unfortunately, he saw a little piece of Mary Morstan as well. It wasn't that he blamed her. It certainly wasn't her fault she'd fallen in love with his doctor. In fact, she had been very accepting of him, not complaining when Holmes dragged Watson out on the Blackwood case… But she knew.

"_I know you care for him as much as I do."_

She knew, and she took him anyway. A part of him had always hated Mary for that. How could he hate one part of the child and love the other? With a deep sigh, Holmes pulled himself away from the wall. He need to find something to occupy his time again until both Watson and he daughter were gone.

When Watson returned that day, Baker Street smelled strongly of freshly baked cookies. He smiled to himself a little, closing the door behind him and hanging up his hat and coat.

"Daddy!" Jean rushed out of the kitchen, nearly tripping over the apron that Mrs. Hudson had let her use. It was really far too big for her.

Laughing softly, Watson lowered himself carefully into a kneel as she rushed up to him. Arm stretched out, she presented him with a cookie. "That looks delicious,"

"Try it!'

"Alright, alright." Watson opened his mouth and Jean broke off a piece of cookie, popping it inside. Watson chewed, smiling at the sweet taste. "Mm, there are very good," he said just as Mrs. Hudson appeared from the kitchen.

"I made them all by myself!" Jean informed him proudly.

"All by yourself?" Watson asked, chuckling as he glanced at Mrs. Hudson. She looked amused, and seemed perfectly alright with allowing Jean to take all the credit for the delicious cookies. The doctor took the rest of the cookie from his daughter, kissing her on the forehead.

She grinned, and Watson couldn't help smiling back. He was so glad she was in such high spirits. He didn't think he would have been able to handle Mary's death if this girl wasn't there to brighten his day so often. Standing up, he stroked her hair, careful not to remove it from the ribbon he'd tied there that morning. "Thank you for watching her again, Mrs. Hudson. You are a blessing."

"You are quite welcome, doctor," Mrs. Hudson answered, peering fondly down at the girl. "She is quite charming. I would be happy to help any time."

Watson couldn't describe how very grateful he was fore that. "Thank you," he murmured, kissing the landlady on the cheek. "I may have found us a flat. I will be looking at it tomorrow morning."

Jean tugged on Mrs. Hudson's dress, gaining both of their attention before the conversation could continue. She was smiling brightly again, "Can I bring some cookies up to Mr. Holmes? To cheer him up?"

Watson blinked in surprise, but Mrs. Hudson seemed to have been prepared for such a question. "That sounds like a wonderful idea, Jean," she answered. "But only a couple. We wouldn't want to spoil Mr. Holmes' dinner." Really, she doubted he would eat, but she also knew that he would not eat many cookies, and it was better to take a small amount up to him.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson." Jean ran off to the kitchen.

The doctor was still processing and he frowned. "Is she still trying to cheer him up?" he asked, his heart aching for his little girl. She did not understand.

Mrs. Hudson sighed softly, but a tiny smile was on her face. "They seem to have talked this morning," she told him, shaking her head. "She has taken quite a liking to him. He has been all she can talk about this morning. Apparently, he did some deducing for her."

Watson was certainly surprised by this. He peered up the stairs, his brows furrowing in thought. Surely it couldn't be true. Only a few days ago… Before he could finish that thought, Jean trotted by, carrying with her a small plate of cookies. She began to hop up the stairs one by one, though he was sure that if her legs were longer, she'd be taking them by two or three at a time in her excitement, just as Holmes did when he was on a case.

"Hold on, Jean," Watson stopped her. He gave one more thanks to Mrs. Hudson before he began to follow his daughter up the stairs. Jean waited impatiently, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"Hurry up, Daddy!"

He almost laughed at her eagerness. He obligingly moved a little faster, though it was difficult with his leg. He followed her into the sitting room and she approached Holmes' door, glancing over her shoulder as she waited for her father.

Watson gave a small nod, though he was still feeling a little apprehensive. Jean eagerly raised a hand, rapping on the door.

"Mr. Holmes?" she called. "I made cookies, Mr. Holmes. I brought some for you."

There was a pause and Watson wondered if the detective would simply ignore them. He wouldn't have been surprised. However, suddenly, the knob of his door turned and Holmes was looking out tentatively. Dark eyes fell on Watson and while it looked like he was unaffected by his presence, the doctor could see just the slightest tightening of his jaw.

Jean didn't seem to notice, practically glowing with delight as she held the tray out to Holmes. "I brought you cookies," she repeated proudly.

Holmes forced himself to tear his eyes away from Watson to look down at the slightly misshapen sweets. He hadn't much of a sweet tooth - except, perhaps, for fine wines, and even that was rare - but she looked up at him, her eyes wide and hopeful, and so very happy to see him. Glancing up briefly, his gaze landed on an identical set of eyes that were much more guarded, questioning.

"Thank you Miss Watson," he said, reaching down and taking a cookie. "That is very kind of you."

Slowly, Watson let the tension ease out of him, smiling at Holmes' words. He didn't know what had caused this… change, but he could see the way his daughter's face lit up, so happy to have done something that supposedly cheered the detective up enough to step out of his room.

"I'll go ask Mrs. Hudson for some tea," Jean said, obviously expecting him to _stay_ out of the room. She set the tray down and made her way quickly to the stairs, calling the landlady's name in a way that reminded the doctor far too much of his friend.

"So…"

"The Lambeth borough, is it?" Holmes cut him off. Watson was startled by how cold his voice was, but then… maybe he shouldn't be.

The doctor bristled, mad at himself for letting his guard down even for a moment in front of this man. "Can tell that by the mud on my shoes, I suppose?"

"That, among other evidence."

"Holmes-"

Holmes held up a hand to silence him. The coldness fell away from the sleuth's eyes, and he may have believed it, had it not been for the conversation they were having. Just then, Jean hopped back up the steps, looking to them with a big smile.

"She's making some tea," she informed them, moving to sit on the settee.

Holmes took the plate of cookies and strolled casually past Watson, setting it down on the coffee table. He slid down into his favorite chair, folding his fingers neatly on his lap. Watson understood, then. Holmes had finally seemed to decide that Jean did not deserve whatever anger he'd directed at her, and the doctor was extremely grateful for that. However, that anger was now directed toward him. He would gladly face it to spare his daughter.

That didn't mean that it didn't hurt.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a chill in the room that Watson was not particularly familiar with. The fire had been lit, and steam still drifted from his tea cup, dispersing into the air around him, but he was not surrounded in that old comfort that Baker Street once provided. It was not as if Holmes was glaring at him, or making biting remarks; quite the opposite, in fact. He hadn't spoken a word since Jean had coaxed him from his room, and he looked everywhere _except_ the doctor.

Jean had not seemed to notice that anything was amiss. She happily chit-chatted about her day, about her friends back in the country, and about any number of other things that little girls could talk about. Holmes seemed attentive enough, nodding at all the appropriate moments, though Watson knew better than to believe that he could not think of several other things at once. He was almost pleasant, allowing Jean to speak as much as she liked, as he smoked his pipe and sipped his tea in silence.

Almost.

Watson knew. Knew the sleuth was angry at him, and he was still trying to piece together _why_. After so many arguments, and so many black moods on Holmes' part, one would think he was accustomed to this kind of behavior, but it felt… different. While he liked to believe he had control over his emotions, Holmes could be very vindictive when angry. He would act out like a child throwing a tantrum. Not this time. This time he almost seemed to completely ignore Watson's existence.

"-right Daddy?"

Watson blinked slowly as he realized that his daughter had been speaking to him. He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm sorry darling, what were you saying?"

Jean's brows knitted together in annoyance. "I was saying that there were a lot of trees around our house."

"Oh. Right… yes." his gaze flickered toward Holmes. He was peering out the nearest window now, long fingers cradling the barrel of his pipe.

"Mr. Holmes?" Jean prodded, her frown deepening. "Did you hear me?"

"You had a friend named Sarah, your mother liked to keep flowers in every room, and she would take you outside every day where you would run around and climb one of the many trees around your house."

Her frown was gone in an instant, satisfied that at least someone had been listening to her. She had opened her mouth to speak again when a knock at the door captured her attention. The girl's head perked up in an instant, as they had not had guests since she and her father first arrived at Baker Street, and she was more than curious to know who it could be. She smiled and slid off the settee to her feet, taking off running down the stairs.

"I'll answer it!"

Watson frowned and stood, worried that their guest might be someone unfavorable. Considering who was sitting in that room with him, it would not have surprised him in the least.

"Jean!"

Not even a flicker of worry passed over Holmes' features. He closed his eyes, drawing his legs up onto his armchair and crossing them beneath him.

Jean stood on her toes to peek out the window, peering curiously at the little man standing outside their door. He was wearing a uniform, and was wringing his hands together. She stepped to the door and pulled it open, looking up at him. "Yes?"

The man looked around, confused when he saw no one in his direct line of vision. He lowered his gaze a second later to the child. A child? He had to check himself to make sure that he was, in fact, at the right address. "Um… hello?"

"Hello."

"Is… Mr. Sherlock Holmes… present?"

"Inspector," Watson stepped up behind his daughter, resting a hand on her head. He sent Lestrade an apologetic look, gently tugging Jean backwards. "I'm terribly sorry about that."

Lestrade's eyes widened a fraction before a friendly smile quickly settled on his features. "Dr. Watson, as I live and breathe! What are you doing here?"

While 'friends' would have been a stretch to describe his and Lestrade's relationship, Watson had to admit that it was good to see a familiar face, especially when it seemed so pleased to see him. "I'm afraid that is a rather long story," one he'd rather not get in to.

The inspector raised an eyebrow, but he knew when not to push the matter, at least. Instead, he turned his eyes to the little girl looking up at him with interest. "And who is this?"

Watson smiled proudly. "This is my daughter Jean."

It was almost comical, the way Lestrade's eyes widened to the size of teacups. "Y-Your daughter?" he repeated, looking to Watson and then back down at the girl. Seeing her again, he realized the similarity of her appearance to her father. It made sense, of course, Watson had been gone for several years now. Naturally he and his wife had started a family. He reached out quickly, taking the doctor's hand to shake, "Congratulations, doctor!"

Watson was distinctly pleased. When they had announced that Mary was pregnant, it had been her family and friends that had all congratulated them, and neighbors that they had barely come to know, but it was extremely heartening to hear it from someone he was more familiar with. Holmes had given congratulations, but it had been half-hearted at best. "Thank you, Inspector." Jean was smiling bashfully, having figured out that such a fuss was being made over her. She curled her fingers into her father's pant leg, hiding her face. Watson chuckled softly, resting a hand on her head and gently stroking her hair. He then remembered that Lestrade had to have come there for a reason. "Are you here to speak to Holmes?"

Lestrade started, having almost forgotten in his surprise. The cheer that had found its way onto his expression vanished, replaced with the grave look. "Yes, I must talk to him immediately."

Watson frowned. This had to be a case. He stepped aside and Lestrade moved past him, starting quickly up the stairs. Leaning down, the doctor pressed a kiss to the crown of his daughter's head. "Jean, go find Mrs. Hudson, will you? Stay with her until I come get you, okay?"

Jean furrowed her brows in confusion. "Okay."

Watson nodded, brushing her fingers through her hair and starting up the stairs after the inspector. Jean took a step toward the kitchen and paused, hearing the door to the sitting room close behind the two men. She bit her lower lip in thought, weighing her options. She did not wish to get in trouble, but her natural curiosity did not allow her to wait idly by. She started toward the stairs on her tip-toes, climbing up them carefully and cringing every time she heard them creek. However, no one else seemed to notice.

Reaching the sitting room door, she leaned forward, squeezing one eye shut and attempting to peer through the keyhole. The voices inside were hushed, and as much as she strained her ears, she couldn't hear them.

Holmes remained seated in his faithful chair, curls of smoke surrounding him as he puffed at his pipe. Lestrade was explaining something rather urgently. Watson's brows were furrowed in concern. Jean frowned in annoyance, pulling her eye away from the hole and instead pressing her ear against the door.

"_ -they've gone missing, Holmes, there's not a trace of them anywhere."_

"_Start from the beginning, Inspector_."

Someone was lost? Is that what Holmes did, then? He found people? Jean listened closely to Lestrade as he recounted the tale. She didn't quite understand it all, her brows furrowing in a way similar to her father's in her frustration. Between the words she didn't know, and the way the door muffled everything, she was sure she missed at least half of it, if not more. All she knew was that two important men had gone missing, and no one knew why.

"-_- the brother_-"

"_Just a moment, Inspector."_

"_What is it, Holmes?"_ Watson sounded confused. He'd never known Holmes to cut anyone off whilst explaining the details of a case, save to gather more accurate information.

"_We have a guest_."

Jean froze. Did he know she was there? But how? She took a step back, preparing herself to flee down the stairs.

"_Ms. Watson, there is little point in running now_."

Two steps and the door opened. Jean jumped, looking up guiltily to her father, putting on the most innocent smile she could manage. The look on his face told her that wasn't going to help.

"Jean, I told you to-"

"It is inconsequential," Holmes jumped up from his armchair, crossing the room in only a few long strides to grab a coat and a hat. "Come Inspector. You can finish explaining the details on the way." He brushed past Watson and Jean, starting down the seventeen steps. Lestrade bumbled a moment, startled by this sudden change, but was soon following after him.

"Will the doctor be-"

"No. He will not."

In a flurry, they were gone. Watson was almost stunned as to how quickly it had happened. His insides twisted painfully, but he did not allow that to show on his face. Turning his attention to Jean, his set his jaw.

"Room. Now." The words were a lot colder than he'd intended.

Jean cringed. "Yes sir."

It was two hours before Watson managed to calm himself down enough to speak to his daughter. He had not been terribly angry at her, she was just a curious child and, while she had disobeyed him several times already, she did not deserve the mix of emotions Holmes somehow always managed to stir up in him. He closed the door behind him as he entered their shared room, spotting Jean on the bed. She was curled up in the corner of it, one of her mother's old books in her hands. She couldn't read yet, but she liked to flip through it and look at the old drawn-in pictures.

The doctor's heart ached. Many times he had returned home to find Jean in such a position, but usually, she would be seated on her mother's lap. Quietly, he crossed the room, lowering himself carefully until he was kneeling in front of the bed. Jean didn't look up, and Watson knew she was afraid that if she did, she would face his anger. He crossed his arms, resting them on the edge of the mattress and settling his chin on them.

"Jeanie," he coaxed softly. She bit her lip, not looking up yet. He reached out, touching her knee. The action finally earned her gaze and he smiled softly. "Now, there's that pretty face."

Jean smiled a little in return. Working up a little courage, "I'm sorry I didn't listen…"

Leaning forward as much as he could, Watson kissed her on the forehead. "It's okay, darling. I forgive you. And I'm sorry I got so angry. You didn't deserve it." He moved to sit on the bed too, and she crawled onto his lap, placing herself on his good leg. Even at this young age, she knew the pain his bad leg gave him.

"Daddy?"

"Yes Jeanie?"

"Are you angry at Mr. Holmes?"

Watson looked down at her in surprise. When he answered, it was with hesitance "No sweetheart, I'm not angry with him." Not anymore. Holmes had stopped scaring his daughter. Now, all he could really feel was hurt.

"Then why are we leaving?" Big blue eyes peered up at him, full of curiosity.

He sighed. "It's complicated."

Her brows furrowed in annoyance at the response, but she did not want to press her luck, so she simply accepted the answer. Leaning into her father's chest, she closed her eyes. "I don't want to leave," she stated quietly.

"Jean…"

"I don't want us to be alone again."

The words shook Watson when her voice cracked at the end. Quickly, his arms went around her and he drew her closer to him, curling around her protectively. She sniffled, burying her face into his collar. How could he not have realized how much this affected her? She was still mourning the loss of Mary, just as he was.

"Shh… it's okay," he murmured, trying to push back the sudden wetness of his own eyes. He could not afford to lose it when she needed him. "I'll figure it out, darling."

* * *

Holmes silently stalked through the familiar halls of the large, quiet building. He knew exactly where he was going, navigating through the unsociable men, who were more than content to ignore him. His case had been an extremely simple one, not worthy of his abilities. However, he'd no intention of returning to Baker Street anyway. Entering a room that looked out into the Pall Mall, he spotted the exact person he was searching for.

"Sherlock," the man greeted, staring out the windows, watching the comings and goings of the people in the streets.

"Good afternoon, Mycroft," Holmes joined him, looking down. He could note many things about those below, yet he was not feeling up to their usual games.

Mycroft lifted on eyebrow, seeming to sense the mood around his younger brother. One glance at him and realization seemed to dawn. "Ah, so the good doctor has returned, has he?"

Holmes glanced his way, a half-hearted glare set on his features. "And how, dear brother, have you deduced that?"

Mycroft's lips quirked upward in amusement. "Why Sherlock, you're wearing his coat."

The younger blinked in surprise, peering down at himself. It was true. In his rush to leave the flat, he'd grabbed one of Watson's coats instead of his own. It had not been an uncommon occurrence in their past, as he'd often borrowed – and stolen – clothing from the doctor, but he was somewhat amazed to find that the habit was so deeply ingrained in him that he'd not even realized he'd done it. Was he really so distracted?

Forcing a blush away from his cheeks, he looked out the window again. "Ah. So I am. I left rather in a hurry."

"On one of your cases, no doubt," Mycroft responded, though now his eyes were fixed on the other man. "Or perhaps you are still not comfortable with a child in the house. Give the doctor my congratulations."

Holmes sent him another glare, popping up the collar of the coat to hide his face. "Do not play these games with me, Mycroft. I did not come here to be subject to your observations."

"And why did you come here?" Mycroft hummed, managing to school the amusement away from his features. The younger shifted uncomfortably, looking away. He did not respond, not entirely sure what answer he would give. His brother shook his head, reaching out and resting a hand on his shoulder to lead him away from the windows. "Come now, my boy. Join me for some tea."


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft studied his brother as he curled up in an armchair, his legs drawn to his chest and tea cradled between both hands. It was always interesting for him to see Sherlock like this, when he closer resembled the child he had watched growing up, rather than the confident man he was while working. Holmes, of course, did not realize this, or he would never allow himself such little actions, but to Mycroft, it was perfectly obvious.

He didn't say a word, quietly sipping his drink as he waited. Prodding the younger would only cause him to close up more, but allowing him to sort through his thoughts first, letting him feel that it was he in control of the conversation, would encourage him to speak. He had plenty of time to wait, and even if he ran out of time, he could push things back; it was not often that Sherlock came to him seeking advice on something more than a case.

It was nearly twenty minutes before the silence was finally broken, "Mary Watson passed a few weeks ago." Mycroft was honestly surprised by this statement; he had not been given the same signs as Holmes to deduce the entire situation. He remained silent, allowing the other to continue. "Watson asked if they – he and the child – could stay with me."

"I am surprised you agreed." Actually, he wasn't. Years of seeing and reading about the interactions between Watson and his little brother told him that, when one of them was in need, the other could deny them nothing. At least, almost nothing.

"He promised that he would keep the child out of trouble."

"You believed him?"

"… No." Holmes pursed his lips, a hint of frustration showing past his calm features. "The child has, thus far, disobeyed Watson several times, she has riffled through my belongings, gone into my room whilst I was away, and imposed herself upon my person. Twice." He looked toward Mycroft, narrowing his eyes as he spotted the amusement in his expression. "Mycroft!"

"Apologies, dear brother. I am simply wondering when you stopped acting the logician." Mycroft settled comfortably into his chair, shaking his head. "The child can be no more than four years old. Why would you believe she would act any other way?" The younger's silence prompted him to continue. "You must think me a fool to believe the child is the reason you are upset, Sherlock. If you would like my advice, you must first tell me what has really bothered you so."

Holmes huffed softly, setting his now empty cup aside. He patted at his waistcoat until he found his pipe, and placed it between his teeth. He didn't bother stuffing tobacco in it, holding it there more out of habit than any real need for the substance. "I am not upset."

Mycroft nearly rolled his eyes, though he caught himself in the action. It was strange how Sherlock could still bring these childish urges out of him when they were alone. "Sherlock, I know you better than that. If you will not tell me, I will be forced to guess."

"You never guess."

"No, I do not." The elder's lips twitched upward slightly. "Has it anything to do with the doctor leaving again?"

Sherlock furrowed his brows and looked up, not surprised, but confused none the less. He peered down at himself before realization flickered in his eyes. "Ah, very clever, brother. Watson's coat."

"Yes," Mycroft sipped his tea, closing his eyes. "Come now. Speak your mind."

Holmes chewed on the tip of his pipe, his eyes drifting toward the window. "Things will never be the same, Mycroft. Not with a child involved."

"Of course it will not. Did you truly expect that you and the doctor could remain as you were your entire lives?" He spoke frankly, but his tone softened a little. Sherlock's silence told him that he'd hoped it would remain that way. "If I recall, brother, it was you who refused to answer the good doctor's letters. You are responsible for the distance that divides you now."

"I know that."

"You know that, and yet you speak as if it is Dr. Watson's fault, or worse the child's."

"Jean."

Mycroft stopped, blinking in surprise. "Excuse me?"

Holmes stood up in one smooth motion, crossing to the window and peering out again. "The child's name is Jean."

"Ah." Amusement touched Mycroft's eyes again, though he carefully schooled it out of his tone. He tried to hide it, but Mycroft could see there was something there, the tiniest touch of something when he spoke of the child. Some sort of tentative emotion he hadn't quite grasped yet. It was far from the warmth that radiated from Sherlock when he spoke of the doctor, but it was there, and it held the potential to grow.

"I know it is not their fault…" There was a lingering 'but' in the words, and Mycroft did not have to hear his next words to know the problem.

"But it was Dr. Watson who left." Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, guarded emotions reflecting in his eyes. Mycroft felt a moment of sympathy for him. He knew how deeply his brother had been hurt when Watson left. Sighing, "If you do not wish him to go, my boy, then ask him to stay."

"That made no difference last time."

"Last time you asked him not to marry a woman he loved." Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he saw the younger's muscles tense up at the word, but he said nothing. He'd long ago deduced just how deeply Holmes' emotions ran for the doctor. Did he approve of it or not? Well… that was a little more complicated.

"Will it make a difference?"

"Of course it will."

Silence fell over them again as the detective mulled the words over, dissecting the conversation in his mind and attempting to process it completely. Mycroft pushed no more, simply closing his eyes once again and giving him the time he needed.

* * *

Watson had dozed into a light sleep, still cradling Jean against his chest. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and immediately his eyes snapped open, startled from the fitful slumber. Curled around his daughter and sitting up, he felt an ache in his leg, reminding him why he could not hold such positions for long periods of time like Holmes could.

Groaning softly, he slowly uncurled himself and lowered Jean down onto the bed. Once he'd pulled the blankets over her, he carefully pushed himself to his feet. He took the time to change his shirt, which was still stained with his daughter's tears, before he quit the room.

Holmes was navigating through his mess in search of… Watson could never be sure. He watched the detective silently, nervousness eating at his stomach. He had promised Jean that he would figure something out and he did not want to break that promise, but he had no idea how Holmes would receive him right now.

"Watson," his voice broke through the silence, startling the doctor. Blinking owlishly to process that, yes, Holmes was talking to him, he gathered himself up enough to respond.

"Holmes." At least he was being acknowledged this time.

"How was the case?"

"Not worth my time."

An awkward silence fell over them. Watson couldn't begin to explain how much he hated it. Many times there had been silences between them, sometimes angry after some dispute, sometimes comfortable and companionable, but there had never been an awkward silence. It was as if they didn't know how to speak to one another anymore. They were like strangers, it seemed.

Holmes seemed to find what he was looking for: a bottle of brandy. His eyes flickered toward Watson uncertainly. "Would you like a glass?" he averted his eyes quickly with the excuse of searching for a glass.

The doctor felt some of the nervousness ease in his gut. Holmes was the one reaching out to him. "Yes please."

The sleuth glanced at him again, a tentative smile causing just the corner of his mouth the flicker upwards. He poured two glasses and handed Watson his. Both of them moved to sit in their favorite armchairs, and a wave of familiarity washed over them. For a little while, they were both quiet again, each trying to gather their own thoughts, or perhaps their courage. When they did speak, it was both at the same time,

"I want you to stay-" "I was hoping I could stay-"

Both stopped, looking directly at one another. Eyes locked for a moment before laughter suddenly overtook them. It was like a weight of Watson's shoulders, hearing the detective laugh. It was rare, even five years ago, for him to gain such an open reaction from him. What had suddenly made Holmes decide he wasn't angry Watson didn't know, and he would probably never receive an explanation, but he didn't care; he was thankful for it.

"Daddy? Mr. Holmes?" Two sets of eyes turned to look toward the sudden voice, and Watson suddenly felt sheepish.

"I'm sorry Jeanie," he said in greeting, "we didn't mean to wake you." Her eyes were still puffy and red, and the tracks of tears on her face were obvious. He glanced toward Holmes, wondering how he would handle such an emotional display, but the detective seemed perfectly calm.

Jean moved to climb up onto Watson's lap again, staying (thankfully) on his good leg. Feeling a little shy, probably because of the tears, she turned her head into the doctor's clothes. "What were you laughing at?" she asked, her voice soft. It went straight to the doctor's heart. He ran a hand over her back soothingly.

"It's nothing, darling. Mr. Holmes and I just said something at the same time."

"Oh."

Holmes sipped his drink, watching the two of them. Jean had clearly been crying, and he pieced together in his mind that it was related to Watson's wish to stay. Despite Watson's focus suddenly focusing on the girl, he felt a sudden wave of gratitude toward her. She turned her head a little, still hiding in the doctor's clothing, but peering over at Holmes now. There were those blue eyes, so familiar to him.

Jean knew something was different. Before she'd gone to sleep, her father and Holmes had been cold to one another at best, but now… she could feel something warmer in the room. It reminded her a little bit of the moments between her parents, like when Watson would bring home flowers and Mary would smile and kiss him on the cheek. She liked this a lot more.

"There is someone that would like to meet you, eventually," Holmes stated suddenly, earning Watson's attention as well.

Jean blinked, her fingers curling into her father's shirt. "Really? Who?"

Holmes looked down at his brandy, watching the drink swirl around. "My brother."

That seemed to catch her interest. She straightened herself, pulling away from Watson's chest to look at him curiously. "You have a brother? What is his name?"

Holmes looked up, catching Watson's questioning look. "Yes, I do. His name is Mycroft. I went to see him today and I told him about you." Questioning was replaced with understanding. The detective fixed his gaze on Jean, trying to push back the sudden embarrassment he felt.

Jean smiled. "You told him about me?"

"That is what I said, yes."

She giggled softly. The subject seemed to have caught her interest, pulling her away from the melancholy state she'd been in. Watson realized that had been Holmes' intention, and his heart warmed.

"What did you tell him?"

"Different things."

This line of questioning continued for some time. Jean had been growing bored in the flat, and was eager to go out into London, and to meet someone new. Watson was content to watch them, glad to see Jean smiling again.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Miss Watson?"

"Are you wearing my Daddy's coat?"

Watson, surprised, looked at Holmes again. Indeed, the detective was in his favorite coat. "Holmes!"

The detective's lips twitched upward. "Yes, I am. And do not look so upset, Watson. It is too small for you anyways."

"It fits me perfectly well!"

Jean tilted her head back to look at her father, worried for a moment that he was truly angry again. However, that fear was alleviated when she saw the faint traces of laughter in his eyes. She smiled, settling into his chest again.

"It fits me better." Holmes shot back, though in all honesty, he could feel where there was too much material hanging over his shorter frame. All was not right between them; he could still feel the edges of bitterness around his heart, and he did not think that they would be leaving soon, but things were familiar. Better. It was only the first step, he hoped. Things would never be the same, but perhaps they could be close.


	7. Chapter 7

The three days that passed were fairly uneventful. Watson could still feel tension around the house, but he and Holmes could sit and chat, or on one particular occurrence, have a nice debate about the scientific benefits of honey. His practice was beginning to grow again, old patients thrilled to hear of his return. Whenever he went out, she asked Mrs. Hudson if she would watch Jean for him; he felt bad for it, it was not her job after all, but she always assured him that she was happy to keep an eye on the girl. Nevertheless, he had been making plans to find a nanny, though he knew it would be a heavy blow to his funds. Every time he thought of it, he missed his wife more and more, but he could not allow himself to think like that, or he would surely lose his mind.

As for Holmes, well... despite Lestrade's visit those days prior, he'd yet to find a case that would provide the mental stimulation he so craved. It worried the doctor. He could see the traces of boredom that had long ago become familiar to him. He no longer locked himself in his room, but he walked as if weights had been placed on his shoulders, and there was a dimness to his usually sharp, calculating eyes. Holmes' energy was almost nonexistent- he would sulk in his chair, staring at the fire for long periods of time. Jean had noticed as well, it seemed. She would attempt to talk to him, but while he tolerated this, his responses were monosyllabic at best, and dejected, she would give up and find something else to do. Watson wasn't sure what to do. What if Holmes turned to his drugs? He did not want Jean to be around for that. And his experiments! While some were mostly harmless, there were others... he shivered at the very thought of them.

Holmes wasn't the only one growing bored either. He would catch Jean peering out the window, watching the going-ons. She wanted to do something, to play outside as she did in the country, but he was simply too busy attempting to rebuild his practice to take her places right now, and Mrs. Hudson could not keep an eye on her whilst she was out running her errands. Watson promised himself that the moment he found a free day, he would take her out.

Watson grabbed a washcloth, using it to wipe away the last of the shaving cream on his face. Running a hand over his jaw, he nodded in approval when he felt that he had left no stubble behind. "Mrs. Hudson!" he called as he stepped out of the bathroom, cringing as he realized that, shouting to her like that, he reminded himself a little more of Holmes. However, he was already a little late, and could not waste time to run down to speak to her and run back up to finish what he was doing. Finding a mirror, he fixed his collar and began to tie his necktie. When he received no response, he furrowed his brows. "Mrs. Hudson!"

"Do try not to wake the grave, old boy," Holmes spoke up from his armchair, tilting his head back in order to see the doctor. "Mrs. Hudson is not in the house."

"You have been louder than I-" Watson started his dry response, but cut short when Holmes' words registered in his mind. Turning to face the detective, his eyes went wide. "What do you mean she is not in the house? Is she in the garden?"

"No." Holmes pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself and closed his eyes, sinking back into his chair. "She left early this morning." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded up note and holding it up for his friend to see. Watson snatched it, his eyes scanning over the words once, twice, and then a third time, his heart sinking.

"Her sister-! Holmes, why did you not tell me sooner?" He checked his pocket watch, dread filling the pit of his stomach. "I am already late, I do not have time to find someone else!" He began to fret, pacing back and forth. "What am I to do?"

"I discovered the note only this morning," Holmes claimed his innocence, peering at his friend once more and watching him. "Surely you have been searching for a nanny-"

"Of course I have, but I can not simply hand my child to someone I have not even met yet!"

What was he to do? He glanced at the door to his room, where Jean was still curled up and sleeping. He could not take her to work with him. It was far too unprofessional to do so without any warning to his patients. Was there no one he could trust with his daughter? The thought brought a pause to him, and his eyes flickered to the detective. As if following his thoughts - it would not have been the first time he had - Holmes' eyes narrowed.

"No, Watson."

Watson moved in front of the armchair to face his friend, resting a hand on each arm as if to assure that he would not escape. "Holmes, please!"

Feeling him closer, the detective pursed his lips, pressing himself further back into his seat. "Absolutely not."

"I have no other options!"

"Watson-"

Watson shifted suddenly so that he was kneeling in front of the detective - Holmes felt a moment of sympathy as he thought of how that might irritate his leg - taking one of his hands and looking up at him. Already, he felt himself wavering. "I beg of you, Holmes! I can trust no one else!"

Holmes turned his head to the side, attempting to break his gaze away from Watson's pleading eyes. "Watson, you are making a spectacle of yourself," he grumbled, his eyes flickering toward him again. He regretted the action immediately, as he felt himself break. He could not say no, not when his friend looked at him so desperately, and was so close to him. Withdrawing his hand, attempting to fight of those warm feelings that coursed through him, he finally nodded shortly.

The other lit up with relief, allowing Holmes to pull away, for he knew how averse he was toward touch. "Thank you Holmes." He pulled himself up again, cringing at the twinge that shot through his leg. He found his walking stick and hurried for his coat and hat. "I will return as soon as possible, I will attempt to push back some of my appointments. " He was waved off by the sulking detective and, knowing that any delay might cause the man to change his mind, he hurried out. It was not until he was sitting in a cab that he realized it may have been a bad idea.

Holmes stared down at his hand, hating himself for being so weak. He had gotten himself into a situation he knew nothing about, and all thanks to John Watson. Sighing, he flexed his fingers, trying to rid himself of the feeling of the doctor's hands on his own. The man would be the death of him, he was sure of it. What was he supposed to do, he wondered. What does one do when caring for a child? Part of him wished he'd been paying more attention to Mrs. Hudson when she had been keeping an eye on the girl. He knew they often cooked and baked, but he had no experience in those matters either. Watson would read to her, or tell her stories, but he had no interest in the romanticisms laid out by the authors of most of the late Mrs. Watson's books, nor did he think Jean would find any interest in the types of things he himself read. As for story-telling... well, Watson would not much appreciate whatever stories he had. What then?

"Mr. Holmes?"

The sleuth's eyes snapped as he heard the voice. Jean was standing in front of him now, still dressed in her night clothes and rubbing those big blue eyes of hers. "Did Daddy already leave?"

Holmes pursed his lips again. "I am afraid so."

"Oh... Okay. " She turned to the door to head downstairs, knowing that Holmes did not like to be bothered.

"Wait a moment, Miss Watson." She stopped, looking to him curiously. Holmes shifted, uncomfortable with this entire situation. "Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister. I will be watching you." The girl looked just as surprised as he had been, but a moment later her face lit up, which he hadn't been expecting.

"Really?"

Another uncomfortable shift. "Yes, really. I would not have said so if it was false."

She sat down on the tiger-skin rug, peering up at him. "Okay. What are we going to do, then?"

"Uh..." He looked around, wondering the same thing. He knew she liked to draw, but she had grown bored with that days ago. No drawing, no cooking, no stories... He remembered that she liked to climb trees, though, and if she could entertain herself that way, then it seemed that he would not have to do too much. "We will go to the park."

He couldn't help feeling pleased with himself when the look of delight passed over her face. "Okay!" she stood up, turning around and running to hers and Watson's room, probably to get ready. Holmes slowly pushed himself up, starting toward his own room when he heard her voice again, "Mr. Holmes?"

Stopping, he bit back a sigh, glancing over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"Will you help me?"

What was there to help with? She was just going to- he realized once again that she was only four. Berating himself for his own absentmindedness, he nodded, joining her in Watson's room. He found the dress she wanted with little difficulty, turning his back as she put on the first layer, and then assisting her with the rest of it. He quickly and skillfully set buttons, lace, and ribbons in their proper place. Jean watched him, smiling the entire time.

"You are much better at this than Daddy is."

Holmes snorted in amusement, imagining Watson struggling to learn the intricacies of these dresses. However, the child's dress was simple compared to that of anything in women's fashion. "I have been forced to learn such things for certain occasions."

"What kind of occasions?"

Holmes paused. "Well... I will leave such stories to your father. I am certain he will tell you some day." He was fairly sure that she still did not know that he was 'the detective' that Watson told stories of. Jean looked a little disappointed, but she nodded, knowing it would do no good to push when Holmes said 'no.' "However, I am afraid that I am still incapable of styling hair. Unless you can do it yourself-"

She smiled again, clearly amused. "I can wear a bonnet." Holmes nodded, digging through drawers assisting her with the bonnet.

"Now wait here while I get dressed."

"Yes sir."

He was relieved. So far, this was turning out to be fairly simple. Holmes changed into something decent for public. Lastly, grabbing a coat and hat, he called to hear at the bottom of the stairs. Jean hurried down, a wide smile on her face. "Hurry up, Mr. Holmes!" he told him, opening the door and bouncing outside to the sidewalks. Holmes locked the door behind him, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Are we taking a cab?"

"It is not far, we can walk," he responded, and she nodded, not seeming too put off by this. She followed him as he started off, looking in fascination at everything they passed. Holmes realized that it was her first time actually walking through the great city, or probably any city, for that matter. She was used to the small town at her former country home. In fact, as they neared crowds, she seemed to become a little more nervous, moving closer to him.

"There are a lot of people."

"Yes, London is a very busy place." His eyes flickered one way and then the other, taking in minor details about people, and deducing from these glances their occupations and lives at home.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Ms. Watson?"

"Can I...?" she trailed off and he had to look down at her to see what it was she wanted. A small hand was reached out to him, blue eyes peering up at him pleadingly.

Holmes felt an odd moment of deja vu. Had her father, not only a short time ago, looked up at him in the same way? "I- uh..." he looked down at her hand, not entirely sure what to do. Finally, after eliminating every other option in his head, he sighed, reaching down and taking her hand in his. Delight painted over her features, she moved closer to him, warily watching the crowds as they walked. It was... strange to walk like this. Jean's small fingers grasped his own larger ones, ensuring herself that she would not be lost in the sea of people. She trusted him to hold on, and to not let her go.

When they arrived at the park, Holmes quickly pulled his hand free of her grasp, pushing down those warm feelings in his chest. She didn't seem to mind, thoroughly distracted. "Look, Mr. Holmes!" she ran ahead to a pond, pointing out the ducks that swam around in it. Holmes sat down and watched, attempting to sort through his thoughts. She reminded him of Watson in many ways. It was a more frightening thought than it should have been.


	8. Chapter 8

Jean Watson was a very curious little creature. It seemed she was always full of questions, which made it quite difficult for Holmes to focus on the morning's paper he'd bought. She would run up to him, sometimes carrying the object in question, sometimes taking him by the sleeve and tugging at it until he either looked or followed her. She asked about typically mundane things, nothing very extraordinary. She was an average child, after all, with average curiosities, not that Holmes would dare say that to Watson. Every parent thought their child to be so very smart. Perhaps, though, he was the wrong person to judge - it seemed unfair to measure at his own standards, when he knew he was miles above the average person, and often even the typical 'intelligent' person.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes!"

Biting back his irritation as he was called for what had to have been the thirtieth time (twenty-seventh, actually), Holmes looked up from his paper. "Yes, Miss Watson?" he asked smoothly.

Jean held her hand out, where a small, plump little creature wiggled on her palm, covered in fuzz. "Look! What is it?"

The detective raised an eyebrow. "It is a caterpillar." Hoping that was the extent of her queries, he turned his eyes back to the text. He should have known better.

"What does it do?"

Closing his eyes to calm himself, he lowered the paper again. "It eats plants, I believe, and eventually turns into a butterfly," he had learned by now, not to use words like 'metamorphosis.'

"This turns into a butterfly? How?"

"I do not know, it is unimportant." He didn't care why or how the creature did it, it was useless knowledge in his work. He snapped the paper back up, indicating that the conversation was over, and that she should go and find something else to do.

"Mr. Holmes?" she didn't seem to be able to take a hint. Reminding himself that she was four, Holmes attempted a more direct approach.

"Miss Watson," said he, his eyes never leaving the article he'd been cut off from far too many times, "I am very busy, reading this morning's paper. Now, unless it is very important-"

"I'm hungry."

Holmes stopped, staring at her for a long moment before sighing and folding the paper up to tuck it under his arm. It seemed that he would not get to finish reading. "Very well." He stood up, brushing off his clothing. "We will find somewhere to eat, then." Jean smiled and nodded, reaching out to take his hand. Holmes realized that, if he agreed to something once, she would automatically assume that it was okay the net time. Pushing back irritation, he began to lead her away.

The girl seemed happy enough. There was a skip in her step as she walked with him, peering around at the different people, seeming to find them fascinating for some reason or another. Holmes in his mental map of London, found a restaurant easily enough, gently tugging Jean inside. They were led to a table, and Jean offered something to sit on so hat she could reach it.

"I have never been to one of these places."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "A restaurant?" That didn't surprise him. Mary seemed like the type to want to cook the family meals herself. "Well, you may wish to accustom yourself to it. It is not uncommon here."

Jean's eyes lit up suddenly, and Holmes couldn't help feeling as if he'd said something he shouldn't have, though he couldn't imagine what that could be. "You mean, you're going to watch me again?"

Understanding hit him, and the detective opened his mouth to respond. However, he didn't know what to say. It surprised him that, despite his constant brushing off of her questions, she still clearly wanted him to watch her. He regained himself a moment later. "No. I am too busy."

The light in her eyes quickly vanished. "Oh. Okay..."

Attempting to block out her crestfallen expression, Holmes took up his menu.

"Mr. Holmes?"

He closed his eyes, listing chemicals in his head in order to calm himself. "Yes Miss Watson?"

"I can't read."

Right. Holmes cringed at his own absent-mindedness. He took up Jean's menu and began to read the names of dishes off to her, explaining each time she asked. No matter how many he named, though, nothing caught her interest, until,

"Bread pudding-"

Her face lit up. "I want that one!"

Holmes blinked. He hadn't been paying much attention while reading, but realizing what she had chosen, he shook his head. "Your father would not be very happy if I gave you desert before lunch."

"Please, Mr. Holmes?" she dragged out the 'please' into a long whine, grating on the detective's nerves.

"No."

"What if I ate some of your food first?"

Holmes sent her a dry look, setting the menu down between them. "No, I will be eating my food."

Jean's lip turned out in a tiny pout, defiance glinting in her blue eyes. "But you don't even eat that much! You never finish what Mrs. Hudson brings!"

The sleuthhound stared at her, startled that she had noticed this. He supposed he shouldn't be, though. At times, children could completely miss the most obvious of things, but, occasionally, they were far more observant than adults, noticing the strangest little things. An idea struck the detective. "Very well," he said, "I will agree to that one condition. You have to answer a question. Close your eyes."

Jean sent him a confused look, but she obeyed. "Okay."

Holmes considered her closely. He would not ask her for grand deductions, she was only four, after all, but observation began small. "Can you count?"

"Yes."

"How many couples are in the restaurant?" The girl furrowed her brows in confusion. She was about to open her eyes, when Holmes' sharp voice jumped up, "No peeking."

"Four?"

"And no guessing," Holmes added, rolling his eyes. "Try to remember."

Sighing, Jean thought back again. She vaguely remembered seeing a couple when they walked in, and there was one by the window, when they'd walked by, but she could not recall any others, no matter how hard she tried, so "… Two?"

"No. Look."

Jean opened her eyes and peered around. She counted each set, furrowing her brows as she came to a realization. "There are four! I was right!"

"Yes," Holmes responded lightly, taking up the menu again, "But you guessed. Now, you're ordering a real meal, or you are not eating."

She sulked in her chair, listening as Holmes listed of meals. Reluctantly, she chose something and crossed her arms, peering around. "That wasn't fair," she said finally.

"It was perfectly fair." Holmes handed their menus to the waiter, ordering their meals as well as two drinks.

"Nuh-uh! No one could've known that!"

"Lower your voice." Holmes crossed his arms back, mimicking her position. "I knew."

"Your eyes were open!"

"Very well." Holmes closed his eyes. "Ask me a question."

Jean looked surprised, but she jumped at the opportunity to prove herself right. She peered around, looking at the groups of people. She wasn't sure what to ask, so she asked something similar, "How many men are there?"

"Fifteen."

She grinned smugly. "Nope."

"Yes." Holmes opened his eyes. "Count out loud."

Jean pointed out each man sitting at a table, counting aloud. "There, see. There's only fourteen."

He raised an amused eyebrow, pointing to himself. "Fifteen."

She blinked owlishly, realization slowly dawning on her. "Oh... How did you know?"

"I observed."

The rest of their time at the restaurant, Jean didn't mention it. Holmes silently noticed the way she looked around at people, counting on her fingers, and his lips tugged upwards just slightly. She reminded him of Watson, when he was first learning his methods. He'd seen the way the doctor would try and note things, would occasionally guess and ask Holmes if he was correct. Most the time, those days, he was wrong, but slowly, he'd improved.

They finished their lunch, and Holmes led her out of the restaurant, not even flinching as she took his hand. He guided her back to Baker Street, pausing at the door in order to fish for his eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a glint of light. He turned his head, eyes narrowed just slightly, but whatever it was, it had vanished. Suspicion gnawed at his insides and he lightly pushed Jean inside. "Miss Watson," he said, starting up the stairs behind her, "I want you to listen closely to me."

Confused, she glanced back at him, but she could hear the urgency in his voice. "Okay..."

"I want you to go to yours and your father's room. Close and lock the door behind you, make sure the windows are all locked, and draw the blinds." Holmes glanced over his shoulder, back to the front door, tension rolling off of him in waves.

Jean didn't know what to think. Holmes had been calm and collected since she'd met him. What caused this sudden nervous air around him? She couldn't help being frightened by it, and she nodded, picking up the space and hurrying to her room. She closed and locked the door, before moving to the window to further follow her instructions. Standing on her toes to reach the string for the blinds, she glanced out at the street.

The girl blinked slowly as she spotted a woman in deep red dress crossing the street, heading straight for the door of 221B. A woman? Jean drew the blinds shut and turned back to her door, attempting to peer through the keyhole.

Holmes seemed to be scrambling, checking surfaces and moving items about. Jean might have guessed cleaning, but there was no more order to it than there had been before. Instead, they were hidden in very unconventional locations. She heard the front door click and Holmes quickly jumped down into his favorite seat and lit a pipe. The nervous air that had been around him seemed to vanish, replaced by the calm image she was more accustomed to seeing.

Steps on the stairs and Holmes looked up, as if having just realized that someone was there.

"Miss Adler," Holmes greeted, dark eyes glinting, "what brings you here?"


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Sorry this took so long, guys. I'm in the process of moving. xP I'll try to pick up the pace.

* * *

Irene Adler was just as he remembered her: fair skin, high cheek bones, clever blue eyes. Adorned in a scarlet dress with a plunging neckline, she was everything a warm-blooded Englishman could hope for, but it was not her slight figure or lush lips that first caught Holmes' attention, it was the glinting jewelry on her finger.

"I see you are engaged again," he said, smoke rolling from his lips.

Irene slipped onto the settee, stretching out in a way that gave her the appearance of a languid cat. _Or a jaguar_, Holmes thought bitterly, imagining her sinking her teeth into him and ripping at muscle.

She raised a hand, peering fondly at the ring on her hand. Holmes imagined it had more to do with the value of the large diamond than any actual affection for her husband-to-be. "Yes. My fiancé is here on business, so I thought I would stop by for a visit. It has been so long since we've seen each other, Sherlock."

"With good reason." Holmes set the pipe back between his lips, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "I told you to leave."

Irene's lips pursed in a gentle pout. "Now, there's no need to be like that. I _did_ leave. Can I help it if life simply brought me back here?" She reached to the side-table to sift through the various letters scattered there. Holmes jumped up, taking her wrist to stop her.

"Yes. You could choose not to come."

Irene stood so that they were nearer to one another, causing the hairs on the back of Holmes' neck to stand up, alert. "You really are a terrible host, Sherlock." She took a step forward and he one back.

"Yes. And you, a terrible guest." He raised her wrist, reaching into her sleeve and withdrawing the coin that she had taken whilst reaching for his letters.

A coy smile tugged at her lips. "I simply cannot help myself."

"Why are you _really_ here, Irene?"

The smile vanished and she sighed, looking away. "I suppose there is no point in delaying any longer." She stepped back, removing a letter from the front of her dress. "My fiancé knows of my history with you and asked me to come here and hire you."

"Not interested." Holmes stepped away, though didn't dare turn his back to the woman.

"Sherlock-"

"If I recall correctly, the last time I took a case for you, you allowed a certain professor to make off with a very important piece of equipment."

Irene pursed her lips again, this time in annoyance. "You know I had to, Sherlock."

Holmes snorted dubiously, stepping to the window and peering out at the street. "You did not have to. If you had simply told me-"

"He would have killed you."

"If he could." The detective turned his attention back to her, crossing his arms. "Take your case and go, Miss Adler."

Irene shook her head defiantly. "No, Sherlock, I will not leave until you have taken this case."

Holmes quirked an eyebrow. The last time she had shown up, Irene had simply left the money on the table, knowing he would read the information he left. She had been calm and collected – this time, she would not risk allowing him to say no. His gaze flickered over her, attempting to piece together the reason when it hit him: the only way Irene's fiancé could have known their history together, all of it, was if she had told him, trusted him. "You love him."

A pause, and then a tiny nod.

The sleuth wasn't entirely sure how to feel about this. In the time that had passed, his thoughts had not lingered long on Irene Adler. He would, occasionally, find an article in the paper centered around her handiwork, and he would take the time to consider that 'what if,' but she had never held a candle to the thoughts of his dear friend. He had been attracted to her, both her mind and body, perhaps he had even loved her once, but as time passed, his feelings dwindled. Still, she was one of very few people he had ever cared for, and still did…

"I still love you, you know," Irene said, distantly, a wry smile turning up her lips. "But I know better, now, than to think it would ever go anywhere." She took pride in the uncharacteristic silence she had sent him into. At least she could still earn a reaction out of him, if nothing else.

Finally, Holmes turned his eyes away, setting the letter aside. "I will review the details, and send you a wire once I have made my decision."

"Of course," Irene stood up, adjusting her coat around her. She approached him, leaning over – Holmes tensed up, flinching away, but she persisted – to kiss him on the cheek. "We are staying at the _Anastasia Hotel_, in room 201. Thank you."

Shifting out of her, Holmes began to search the room. "I have not accepted."

"Well, thank you for considering it anyway." Irene started out, pausing at the door to look back at him. "And Sherlock." He paused to listen. "I learned to let go. Perhaps you should learn to do the same. Tell the doctor I said hello, won't you?"

When the door closed, there seemed to be a deafening silence around him. He slid open one of the drawers of his desk, spotting the little morocco case stashed inside. His fingers grazed over it, and-

"Mr. Holmes?"

he snapped the drawer shut. Holmes looked up at the little girl standing in the doorway, tugging uncertainly at one of her curls. "Yes, Miss Watson?"

Jean looked left, right, and finally settled on him, he brows drawn together in a way that reminded him of Mary Morstan; particularly after the explosion during the Blackwood case, when she was sitting at Watson's bedside. "Who was that woman?"

The image of her mother set him on the defensive. "No one important."

"… Oh." She shifted her weight before trying again, "Are you okay?"

He wavered, turning away from her and instead finding his violin. "Fine." She watched as he sat down, lying sideways in his favorite armchair, and pulling the bow across the strings. Jean had seen the instrument around, and even heard him play it a time or two, but usually it was nonsense, simple sounds that could be made by anyone. This time, it was slow and melancholy, playing a song she didn't know the name of. It sounded nice to her, but she could sense a dark mood around him that unsettled her.

Holmes seemed to have decided to ignore the world around him, though had not gone to his room, knowing that to abandon Jean whilst he was supposed to be watching her would be a capital offense. The girl hesitated a second, then slowly approached the armchair, sitting in front of it with her back to Holmes. He didn't even glance up, and despite the immeasurable amount of time that passed, she remained there, silently listening to the sad music, as if keeping watch over him.

When Watson returned, the flat was silent. A little unnerved, knowing the type of trouble his old roommate could get into, he crept carefully and quickly up the stairs, hoping to ensure that his daughter – and his friend – were still alive and well. He cracked open the door to the sitting room, peering inside.

Jean had fallen asleep, leaning back into the armchair with her head lolled slightly to the side on the cushion. Holmes remained where he was as well, violin resting on his stomach, and his fingers slowly stroking Jean's hair as he stared at the ceiling. It might have warmed his heart, had he not known that look on the detective's face so well.

He entered with caution, taking a seat in his own armchair and waiting silently. If Holmes chose to speak, he would do it in his own time – pushing him would only cause him to become irritated. Luckily, Watson did not have to wait long.

"I have a case."

That was a surprise. Watson would have thought that would brighten Holmes' mood, not send it into this stoop. "Oh?"

"You will not like it."

Ah. That made more sense. "And why is that?" he asked, already afraid of the answer.

"I've been hired by Irene Adler's fiancé."

The very mention of the woman caused Watson to become alert and narrow his blue eyes suspiciously. "She was here?"

"She brought me the case, yes." Holmes' eyes never left the ceiling, studying patterns that he had memorized long ago, during these sorts of moods. "A mysterious person has been sending him important documents that they certainly should not have possession of. He wishes for me to find him."

"Holmes, is it really a good idea to-"

"She loves him."

The words caught Watson completely off guard. He stared at Holmes, not entirely sure if he had heard right. "Excuse me?"

"Irene." Holmes turned his head finally, looking at Watson with blank eyes that twisted the doctor's heart painfully. "She loves him. Her fiancé. He is not like the others."

Suddenly, Holmes' mood made perfect sense. A mix of feelings struck the doctor then, pity, sympathy, frustration, and a number of other things he could not quite put his finger on. "Holmes…"

Holmes turned his attention back to the ceiling. "You should really move the girl, Watson. She has been in this spot a while, and will likely have a sore neck if she remains here."

Watson felt he should argue, but really, what was there to say? Holmes clearly did not wish to talk about this situation, and he knew better than to think that he could change his mind about the case, not when he had already made the decision. He hadn't known that Holmes still had feelings for Irene, and didn't really know what to make of it. Sighing, he stood, gently scooping his daughter into his arms. Holmes continued stroking her hair until she had been lifted out of his reach, and his arm fell so that the fingers brushed against the floor.

"Did she behave?"

"Yes, I suppose she did."

Seeing that he would receive no more than that response for a while, Watson shook his head, sighing softly. He carried Jean to his room, tucking her into bed and sitting on the edge, stroking her hair the way Holmes had. She remained sound asleep, nuzzling into his hand sub-consciously.

He placed a goodnight kiss on her forehead, and moved away. Instead of going out to the sitting room, knowing that he would not receive any good company now, he managed to dig up an empty journal. He had not written anything in some time, but being around the detective made him want to go through the details of an old case – it had always been relaxing to him, he simply hadn't had the time, living out in the country.

Outside the room, it was silent, and he hoped that simply meant that Holmes had remained where he was, and not that he had sneaked off to his room to indulge in his cocaine.


End file.
